


Embers & Light

by duskandstarlight



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Smut, F/M, Healing, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 259,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskandstarlight/pseuds/duskandstarlight
Summary: Now, in that study at the river estate, Cassian looked down at the female who would be staying with him for the near future. At the eyes that had drained of fire at the sound of her sisters words and were now nothing but hollow, unseeing.“You’re coming with me to the Illyrian Mountains,” he told her.Those steel blue eyes bore into his, unblinking. He waited for the retort, for the snide remark that would send him reeling but it didn’t come.Somehow, that was worse. It meant that the situation was far graver than any of them had realised.___A Nesta & Cassian fic - a tale of how Nesta slowly starts to heal and how she & Cassian grow back together.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 1585
Kudos: 1501





	1. The House of Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Now, in that study at the river estate, Cassian looked down at the female who would be staying with him for the near future. At the eyes that had drained of fire and were now nothing but hollow... unseeing.
> 
> “You’re coming with me to the Illyrian Mountains,” he told her.
> 
> Those steel blue eyes bore into his, unblinking. He waited for the retort, the snide remark that would send him reeling but it didn’t come. 
> 
> Somehow, that was worse. It meant that the situation was far more grave than any of them had realised.
> 
> A Nesta & Cassian fic - a tale of how Nesta slowly starts to heal and how she & Cassian grow back together.

** Chapter One  
Cassian **   


Feyre had found him at the House of Wind. Cassian’s chest was heaving after some early morning hand-to-hand combat with Azriel, his hands braced on his knees as he gulped crisp, fresh air into his lungs. Summer was giving way to fall, the chill hanging in the air a promise of what was to come - of the fiery riot of autumn colours as the trees shed their leaves and bracing wintery days.

It had been a long time since Cassian had fought with his brother. His business had kept him in the Illyrian mountains more often than not, but his daily sparring with Windhaven’s most promising warriors had paid off, and although he was sporting a split lip and swollen nose, Azriel was definitely the worse for wear. 

Wiping away the blood and sweat from his face onto his tunic, Cassian looked up to see Feyre materialise out of thin air a few feet away from them. He grinned at her in greeting. From the way Feyre grimaced at him, he gathered his teeth were covered in blood.

“I thought we weren’t training this morning?” he asked as he spit red over the edge of the sparring plateau. Waving Azriel goodbye he shucked off his tunic, tossing it to the ground so his skin could air dry, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Feyre rolled her eyes at him and rested a hand on her hip, “Must you find any excuse to undress?”

Scraping his hair back into a messy bun, Cassian barked a laugh, “If it’s making you all hot and bothered, I can’t say I blame you. Should I speak to Rhys about properly satisfying his mate in the bedroom?”

“Such a large ego,” Feyre mused, “it makes me wonder if you’re over compensating, Cassian.”

He snorted at that, “I have the largest wingspan.”

“So you say,” Feyre huffed, which turned into outright laughter as his eyes gleamed. “Oh stop, i’m just teasing you.”

Nodding, Cassian poured himself a glass of water. He gestured to Feyre with the glass but she shook her head. When he’d finished downing it, he found her watching him apprehensively.

He surveyed her stiff posture, the way she had begun to worry her bottom lip between her teeth before he commanded, “Out with it.”  


A moments pause. Then, “I want to talk to you about Nesta.”

Cassian stilled. He did not like to speak about the eldest Archeron sister if he could help it. He did not like to think about what had happened between them or about what was happening to her.

His voice was too light, too conversational when he asked, “And why would you want to do that?”

Sighing, Feyre shifted her gaze to focus somewhere over his shoulder. The sound was tormented and defeated. “I’ve been thinking long and hard about what to do about Nesta,” Feyre started to explain. “She’s tearing herself apart and I - I don’t know what to do. I’ve stood on the sidelines - we all have - but you saw her in the summer. She’s wasting away. From what I can tell from Azriel’s updates, she spends most of her time drunk or bedding other males and it’s… it’s gone on too long. We need to intervene.”

Cassian didn’t know what to do with his body so he crossed his arms firmly against his chest instead. He and Feyre had never spoken about the males Nesta took home - the males she made it her mission to find - as she sought out sleazy establishments and took her pick at the end of the night. They were always tripping over themselves to have a go. She was, after all, the female who had killed the King of Hybern. 

At the beginning, when Nesta first moved out of the town house, Cassian had staked out on the rooftops of whatever tavern she was frequenting, waiting to following her home to make sure she got back safe. He never dropped down on the pavement beside her, never made a point of scaring the shit out of the male who was planning on putting his cock where it didn’t belong. No, he kept a healthy distance from Nesta whenever he could. He had razed enemies to the ground knee-deep in mud and gore and not batted an eyelid, but Nesta had a way of making him feel as if he were balancing on a tightrope between two cliffs with his wings bound. 

So Cassian would perch himself on the rooftop opposite her worn apartment until a dim light cast itself out of the dirty windows. Once, he had remained beyond that - there was something about the male she had chosen that set him on edge - but in the end he had felt so sick with rage that he’d taken to the skies until the dark had bled into the pastel hues of dawn. 

He hadn’t gone back, after that. 

Levelling his gaze with his High Lady, Cassian tried to appear unaffected, but his voice too low as he asked, “What are you suggesting?”

“I was thinking that you could take her with you to Illyria. I know you’re leaving tomorrow.”

Everything in him went taut and loose all at once. Refraining from sending Feyre a sharp look, Cassian took a moment to calm the thrum of blood that pounded through his veins, “Is that wise?”

“I think the fresh air could do her good,” Feyre admitted. “It would get her out of Velaris. Nesta always wanted to travel and see the world. Rhys said you’re going to be stationed out there for a while and it would force her to get clean. She’s a functioning alcoholic, Cassian. She’s draining Night Court funds left, right and centre to feed her habit.”

She peered up at him. Those grey-blue eyes of hers were identical to her sisters in colour but they lacked the ice cold fire that burned so ferociously in Nesta’s. It was a fire that never failed to kindle a heat within him. 

“Would you… would you do it?” she asked uncertainly.

“Feyre -“ he started gently, but she cut him off.

“I know,” she interrupted, “I know that things ended badly between you but she’s my sister, Cassian and I’ve failed her. This has all got so out of control. Nesta guards herself so carefully and pushes everyone away that I just… I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what was _right._ But I have two options: I watch her wither away and die- because she will die, Cass if she continues this lifestyle - or I become the evil sister and intervene.” 

Feyre’s face crumpled then and Cassian allowed her to step away, to look out at the view of Velaris whilst she composed herself. The city unfolded before them like a rolling canvas of colour and light and the Sidra sparkled as it weaved itself like a serpent through the centre of the city until it met the sea. 

Taking a deep breath that Cassian could tell gave her courage, Feyre said with a quiet fervour, “I’d rather be evil in this narrative than to not have tried to make things better. Nesta says she doesn’t need saving but she does need guidance - she needs somebody who will bring her out of this shell she’s become - and I can’t think of anybody else that might pull a reaction out of her. I know you travel a lot so she’ll still have her space but she’ll be in an environment that won’t feed her habit.” 

Feyre turned to face him. Her braid caught in the wind and Cassian watched it fly behind her, “I know it’s a lot to ask. And I’m not asking as your High Lady, I’m asking as a friend. I know she’s been horrible to you but if we trialled this until Solstice…” Feyre trailed off at his hardened expression, “Would you do it? Take her with you, I mean.” 

A muscle feathered in his jaw as he clenched his teeth, “She’d have to live with me. It’s not safe for her to stay by herself.”

“Yes,” Feyre agreed. 

“I have a housekeeper who can keep an eye on her when i’m away.”

Feyre had blown out a breath - it was an exhalation of nerves, of the relief that came with him not saying no. She grabbed for his hand and squeezed, a silent thanks and he had sent her a small smile, even though he felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

Now, in that study at the river estate, Cassian looked down at the female who would be staying with him for the near future. At the eyes that had drained of fire at the sound of her sisters words and were now nothing but hollow, unseeing.

“You’re coming with me to the Illyrian Mountains,” he told her.

Those steel blue eyes bore into his, unblinking. He waited for the retort, for the snide remark that would send him reeling but it didn’t come. 

Somehow, that was worse. It meant that the situation was far graver than any of them had realised.

There was no reaction in Nesta’s expression. Her impenetrable mask was either too honed after years of practice or any emotion she should have felt had been suppressed under the claws of those demons that haunted her every move. The only indication that she had heard was in her posture, that preternatural stillness and something wholly _other_ of hers froze, as if she were on pause. 

The air around them snapped taut as everyone waited to see what she would do… how she would react. 

But after a few beats, all Nesta clipped was, “When.”

“Now,” Cassian said firmly, folding his arms across his wide chest in a stance that conveyed he was taking no shit, especially from her.

“Fine,” she snapped, but her voice was flat, devoid of the anger that should be consuming her. “Am I allowed to pack my things or am I no longer allowed my possessions?”

“I told you to wrap up warm,” he gritted out, pressing the scarf he had grabbed from her apartment into her hands.

“The only thing I’ll need, I’m sure.”

_Strike, parry, strike._ Their insults were as sharp and brutal as their usual wordplay but something felt off. Wrong.

His gut twisted and roiled, like a serpent uncoiling ready to strike.

In his peripheral vision, Rhys stepped forward but Cassian snarled in warning, flinging out his hand behind him. Long suppressed anger bubbled to the surface so fast red slid across his vision. Fisting his hands at his side, Cassian wrestled down his rage as he tried to block out the image of her beaten up apartment, the dirty sheets and the scent of multiple males. He wouldn’t go back there. He wouldn’t allow another male near her, not if it killed him. 

He’d have to have Feyre or Elain pack her a bag and Azriel could winnow it over later. 

“We’ll fly, not winnow,” he said to Rhys shortly, not bothering to turn to his friend as his wings rustled agitatedly, the promise of the open skies the only thing keeping him from losing it in front of his friends. 

He wasn’t even sure what he was angry about. Everything, probably. This situation, the vacant cold that laced Nesta’s every word, every movement… Her capacity for pushing away those that cared for her. For his promise that they would have time, only to see it wasting away before his eyes as she bedded male after male and drank herself into a stupor.

Cassian knew Rhys well enough to sense that he had opened his mouth to protest but had then closed it. But Cassian’s gaze didn’t break from Nesta’s as he mustered all of his strength into drawling the four words that he yearned would provoke outrage and indignation… some fiery emotion from her that would tell him that the Nesta he had known was still there under all of the layers of ice and trauma, “Time to go, _sweetheart_.”

* * *

Stalking out of the study into the small courtyard, Cassian stopped by the stone fountain at its centre. The water spilling down into the pool basin was the only sound - even the birds had stopped chirping, as if they too had sensed his wrath and had turned mute. 

Nesta had floated out last, her chin raised, her shoulders back, as if she were a queen ready to greet her loyal subjects, despite the unkept drabness to her hair and the creases in her stained clothing. 

Amren hadn’t even bothered to leave the study. She was picking her nails, a look of complete boredom adorning her feline features. Cassian hadn’t been privy to the barbed words between Rhys’ second and Nesta on that summer boat, but it must have been bad if Amren hadn’t even unleashed the power that bubbled so close to the surface of her skin. 

The threat of it looming over Nesta was worse, somehow. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Amren’s upper lip curled slowly. Those stormy eyes flashed and those actions alone had his blood crawling… He needed to get them out of here.

Feyre looked anxious and small amongst them all, her worry coming off of her in waves. Rhys had his hands in his pockets - a telling sign that he was refraining from comforting his mate - most likely because he had spoken out of turn earlier. 

“Nesta,” Feyre tried softly, clasping her sister’s limp hands in her own. “I think it will be good for you in Illyria. To get away from everything and get some space. Elain and I love you very much. It hurts us to see you like this.”

There was no response. No barbed words or venom. Nesta just held Feyre’s gaze, expressionless.

Cassian couldn’t bear it… those dead eyes, so he closed the distance between himself and the sisters, severing the moment. 

Feyre glanced quickly at Cassian and then back to Nesta as she promised, “I’ll write to you. Elain and I will both write.”

She nodded at Cassian, giving him the permission that he hadn’t even thought to seek, his mind too preoccupied with taking to the skies as soon as possible.

“Have Az bring her belongings,” he told Rhys and Feyre, securing his hair with a leather tie. 

He didn’t falter as he wrapped his arms around an unusually compliant Nesta, and shot into the sky.

* * *

Air rushed into his lungs in a steady torrent, the bracing air anchoring him. He ignored Nesta’s sharp hiss at the sudden speed, at the half-moons of her nails as they dug through his leathers. 

When he reached the perfect altitude, he gave a few powerful flaps before spreading his wings wide, giving himself a moment to soar and drink in Velaris for the last time before following the northern curve of the Sidra.

Neither of them spoke during the long journey. With each beat of his wings, Cassian’s anger gradually dissipated to a low hum… and then to total exhaustion. He had barely slept the night before - a constant these days - especially having known what was in store for him the following day. Somehow, the lack of verbal sparring had left him even more spent, the knowledge that things were far worse than they had thought roiling uneasily in his gut… 

They should have interfered sooner. Much sooner.

Focussing on the slow burn in his wings to take his mind off things, Cassian expended some of his power to block out the climbing chill. It was a drain on his already tired body, but he hadn’t had the energy to fight Nesta into Illyrian leathers before they left. She’d have only given him hell for it anyway.

Not daring to glance down at her, Cassian kept his eyes firmly on the path ahead as he tracked his way through the sky. Despite the thick material of her dress, he could feel Nesta’s sharp bones digging into his arms and she felt too light - so light that he had to swallow down his worry. The first thing he was going to do when they got to Windhaven was make her eat something, even if he forced it down her. Perhaps he could bribe her by threatening to burn one of her beloved books - it was sacrilege, he knew, but when needs must...

Banking to the right at the first sight of snow capped mountains, Cassian flew straight into the thick snow clouds surrounding a wide mountain pass. Pure, white snow fell thick and heavy around them, so fast that if Cassian hadn’t grown up flying these skies then it would have been too easy to become disorientated. The wind was its own force now and even the best of Illyrian’s would have been tossed around like a moth on paper-thin wings. But Cassian wasn’t any Illyrian warrior and his seven siphons weren’t for nothing. As a howling gust threatened to toss them aside he dove, tucking in his wings tight as he shot towards the ground as straight as an arrow. He felt Nesta’s sudden death grip and the sharp tang of her fear as they raced towards the war camp, but he just watched the pitched tents take shape and the sparring plateau full of moving figures come to life beneath him as he waited… waited…

The wind dropped as quickly as it had come and Cassian flung out his wings, launching them backwards. Grinding his teeth, he back-flapped hard, his tendons straining and burning at the sudden drag of air.

He did not acknowledge the fear that slammed into him, nor did he express his relief that Nesta was capable of feeling _something._ He merely steadied himself before touching down on the powdery ground, his voice gruff from the hours it had remained unused, “We’re here.”


	2. The Bungalow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta and Cassian arrive in Windhaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter update a few days early as i've been a writing machine as of late. This was already written and so I only had to check for grammar (sorry if I have missed anything glaringly obvious, but i've read it through too many times now and it's all just become a bit of a blur).
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> And Mas is very dear to my heart, so be kind...

** Chapter Two  
Nesta **

Despite being airborne, Nesta slept during the journey. It had been a late night and with the alcohol flowing in her veins after her quick fuck she had slept fitfully, dipping in and out of a blend of dreams that thankfully hadn’t turned into a nightmare of snapping bones and hoarse screams.The alcohol helped with the nightmares. It kept them at bay. It was one of the reasons why she drank so much; why she embraced that slow, sticky layer of numbness that crept across her bones until it settled like a blanket.

By all accounts, Nesta should feel humiliated over what had happened at the house, but when she reached inside herself there was simply nothing. No emotion, no icy rage — just hollow exhaustion that seemed to ooze over her bones like thick oil. Her hangover was hitting her in full force now too, and without another drink to chase it away she could do nothing but close her eyes to the moving landscape and hope Cassian wasn’t pissed enough to drop her in the Sidra. 

Nesta had felt Cassian’s rage in that stupidly extravagant house as if it were her own, the anger blasting through that numbness. It had startled her; the unchecked swell of it. Not that she had let it show. She was a master of blocking her emotions; of ensuring that nobody was privy to the thoughts inside her head. It helped, of course, that too often she felt nothing at all. As if she were an empty shell — a lone, battered vessel floating at open sea.

Hours later, Nesta woke to awful lurch in her stomach. When she had opened her eyes, the world was rushing around her in a blur of white. Panic slammed into her with such fierceness that all the breath was knocked out of her as they shot to the ground at breakneck speed. Fear gripped her in its talons as she braced herself for the crash, but then Cassian had flung out those huge powerful wings, flapping hard…

The world righted and steadied as she gasped for breath, but Cassian showed her no mind as he landed with the grace of an Illyrian warrior. Mud and snow slid down the protective bubble he had thrown around them — it was like dirty rain running down glass. Nesta watched a tear swell and break, tracking the thin line as it trickled down to meet the earth. 

“We’re here,” Cassian said roughly in her ear.

Insults surged through her but her heart wrestled and thumped so hard against her ribcage she couldn't form the words. Instead, she loosened her grip on his neck and focussed on rebuilding that wall of ice in her mind — brick by brick — until she no longer felt anything at all but that dark, bottomless void. 

The numbness swept in soon after that, especially when he didn’t even deign to glance at her. Those brown-green eyes of his scoured the perimeter, a strand of his dark hair flapping in the wind unnoticed from where it had escaped his leather.

Nesta followed his gaze but was only met with the relentless flurry of thick snow. She could barely see a foot in front of her. If she squinted, she could just make out what looked like a one-story stone house to her left. To the right — where Cassian had fixed his gaze — she swore she could see moving shadows through the gaps of falling snow... But it hurt her eyes to concentrate and she blinked as pain lanced through her temples. It seemed it would take more than a few hours of shuteye to get rid of her hangover, after all. 

It was with that realisation, that Nesta decided she was done playing the fair maiden. 

Making her voice as cold as the punishing wind, she said, “Well, are you going to put me down? Or is this how I’m expected to travel from now on?”

She felt him tense and when Cassian finally looked at her, his eyes were hard and unyielding. She watched a muscle feather in his jaw; surveyed the layer of stubble; the bruised smudges underneath his eyes. There was a tiredness to him that she hadn’t noticed before. 

The unusual lack of playfulness in his voice was disconcerting as he said shortly, “With that shoe choice? You’ll get frostbite.”

He strode towards what was indeed a stone building on their left and stepped up to a wide wooden door that was, Nesta realised, designed purposefully for Illyrian wings. As if she weighed nothing, Cassian freed the arm wound around her back and rested his palm against the wood. His siphon gleamed and Nesta just made out the click of a lock through the howling wind as he shouldered open the door and set her down on a large doormat. 

The stiff bristles poked through her flimsy shoes, biting into her skin but she didn’t protest. Instead, she surveyed the space before her.

In front of her was an open living space centred around a stone hearth on the opposite wall. A glowing log burner stood in place of the traditional fire grate, its black chimney rising up to meet the high ceiling and a huge u-shaped sofa framed the hearth, the material charcoal grey. In its centre — between the sofa and log burner — stood a rustic pine coffee table with black stud detailing. Uplit bookshelves lined the deep blue walls, which Nesta was surprised to see were neatly arranged with books and ornaments rather than misplaced weapons. 

“This is my home,” Cassian said gruffly from behind her. “We’ll be staying here.”

Turning stiffly, she found Cassian taking off his leather boots. He knocked them against the door frame to get rid of the parcels of snow that had wedged itself into the grooves of the sole. She bent down to untie her laces and remove her stained shoes. He nodded tightly, as if in thanks.

“Cassian, _stella meus!”_

Nesta’s head whipped up at the sound of the voice, her spine stiffening instinctively. Her temples throbbed again and she wished that she could just lie down and fade into nothing.

But instead she watched as a female stepped out from one of the alcoves framing the side of the hearth. She was petite and by human standards, Nesta would have guessed she was around fifty years old, although Nesta had no idea what age that made her in fae terms. She had the same complexion as Cassian, but her dark ebony hair was streaked with grey and her skin was more weathered, as if the brutal conditions of the mountain had hardened her body. 

Her face was alight with affection as she placed two wrinkled hands on the side of Cassian’s face and kissed both of his cheeks in turn. 

Cassian’s smile was full of a fondness Nesta had never witnessed — not even with Mor — his expression soft, as he asked, “Tiya, sunt tibi beni?”

The female Illyrian shrugged noncommittally as she pulled back to peer into Cassian’s face. 

She patted him on the cheek — the gesture motherly — and then said in the common tongue, “Still not sleeping enough, I see?”

The corners of Cassian’s mouth quirked upwards. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

The female stepped back, her eyes falling on Nesta. “And this is your guest?” 

“Yes,” Cassian replied, waving a hand between Nesta and the female. “This is Nesta. Nesta, this is Masak — or Mas, as I call her. She looks after the house for me. She’ll be here most days.”

Mas studied Nesta carefully, a ghost of a smile on her face as she bowed her head subserviently. Nesta willed herself to speak but she felt the words push themselves down far, far into herself. 

She forced her chin to dip in greeting instead. 

Mas didn’t seem deterred by Nesta’s lack of vocal chords. Instead, she surprised Nesta by taking her hands in her own and squeezing them softly. Her skin was warm but her palms were rough and chapped, and Nesta wondered how they had come to be so worn.

“You tell me if you need anything, anak,” Mas said softly to Nesta. Then she turned to Cassian. “You will be gone soon, I assume?”

“I’ll be in and out,” Cassian replied vaguely. “I have business visiting the camps further north.”

Mas gave a snort of disgust, her wings flaring slightly, but she didn’t comment any further. “I made _bigos_ for you yesterday. It’s on the stove.”

Cassian’s groan was one of joy. “You spoil me, Mas. Thank you.”

Mas nodded as she took her coat from the hook behind the front door, “I will be back later.”

“Do you want me to fly you to the market?” Cassian asked. 

Clucking her tongue, Mas pulled up the hood of her coat. “Don’t fuss, sinta. It’s only a bit of snow, or have you lost your Illyrian skin spending so much time in Velaris?”

Cassian muttered something under his breath which made Mas tut again but he waved her through the open the door. A blast of wind and snow howled through the entryway, obscuring her figure, and in the blink of an eye the tiny Illyrian was gone. 

Cassian shut the door and turned back to Nesta.

They stared at each other for a second before Cassian gestured to the living space.

“Make yourself at home,” he said. 

When Nesta didn’t move, he tried again. “Let me take your coat — ”

Nesta stepped neatly away from him as he tried to make up the distance between them. She knew she should feel angry so she made herself so, commanding her eyes to flash as she bit out, “Oh, so now you’re acting chivalrous?” 

She unbuttoned her coat and unwound the scarf he had made her wear — the birthday gift from Elain that she hated. It was just a reminder that even her favourite person in the world had abandoned her. The thought made her hands tremble, and it took her a few times to free the ivory buttons, but eventually she managed it. 

Cassian had tugged his hair out of its leather by the time she looked up. He palmed his face in exasperation. 

“Gods Nesta...”

“Don’t ‘Gods Nesta’ me,” she snapped, forcefully pressing her belongings into his hands. She ignored the bulge in his biceps as he instinctively lifted his arms to catch her clothing, “I didn’t see you publicly disowned by your sister earlier.”

“You haven’t been disowned — ” Cassian started, but she interrupted him.

“No? Well, it certainly seemed that way to me.” 

A pause. 

Cassian stared her down and she could feel his temper as if it were its own creature; a dark shadow pacing restlessly at her feet. She wondered if others could sense his power like she could, if that’s why they balked from him on the battlefield, as he cut down men as if they were nothing but wheat and he a scythe. 

In her ears, Nesta heard the frantic tempo of his pulse as it pushed against the olive skin of his throat. She pushed the sound away, praying it would disappear. Gods, she wanted a drink more than anything. Her hands shook again and she willed them to still. 

“I’m tired,” she made herself say flatly. “I’d like to go to bed.”

Resigned, Cassian waved an arm to the door on the left-hand side of the living room. 

“Through there. There’s a shared bathroom down the hall, if you need to use it.”

She left without another word.  
  


* * *

  
Nesta woke to grey light and a mouth so dry she felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. She wrestled off the throw that certainly hadn’t been around her last night and pushed her sweaty hair from her face. She sat up. 

Water. She needed water.

Her gaze snagged on the food tray on the bedside table. Beside a bowl of what looked like cold soup was an empty glass and a jug of water. She poured herself a drink and gulped it down with shaking hands. She poured another and did the same. Then she studied the soup in front of her. Her stomach growled with hunger but she didn’t touch it. Eating was often accompanied by nausea these days, and it was too early to risk eating before she’d lined her stomach with a cup of tea. 

She’d prefer alcohol of course, but she doubted she’d be getting that here. Knowing Cassian, he had probably spent the evening clearing the house of bottles. 

She already hated him for it. Hated how he cared. How he ignored her order to stay away.

Through the brain fog, she vaguely recalled him coming in the night before, encouraging her to eat. She had pretended to be asleep, even though she knew he could tell by her breathing that she was awake. Nesta wondered how often he had checked up on her throughout the night, but then decided she didn’t want to know.

She was still in her clothes from the day before; her grey dress crumpled and in desperate need of a wash. _She_ was in need of a wash, and the stabbing pain in her bladder was enough of a warning that she needed to find the bathroom, fast. 

Ignoring her ever persistent headache, she climbed off the large bed and hunted through the dresser for something to wear. They were mostly empty, save for a drawer full of ghastly bright clothing, embroidered handkerchiefs, an assortment of engraved knives and red satin boxer shorts — the last of which she recognised as a Solstice present from Mor. 

Snorting in disgust, Nesta pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser to find thick, fluffy towels in charcoal grey. She grabbed one and the only plain shirt she could find — a soft grey blue, which reminded her of the open sky — and opened the door to her room. 

Thankfully the living room was empty, but the distant clink of dishes chased her as she walked down the hallway to her left. 

She found the bathroom easily — the door was adjacent to her bedroom — and she slipped inside, turning the lock. 

Safe.

The bathroom was a good size but it was still modest in relation to Feyre’s palace back in Velaris. The square bathtub took up the majority of space, having clearly been made with wings in mind. A long, wide spout had been built into the tiled wall above the tub and a shelf hovered to the right of it, neatly arranged with bottles and soaps. 

The tense set of her shoulders eased. Although she had mastered lowering her body into the bath, Nesta still struggled to put her head under water. It made washing her hair an internal battle that usually took up all the strength she could muster. 

After she had relieved herself, Nesta fiddled with the brass taps of the bath, eventually finding a button on the underside that redirected the water to the spout above. The water was hot, cleansing and liberating and in her minds eye she could almost see those layers of grime and filth stream off of her, down the plug hole and out of sight.

Nesta had reached for a random bottle of shampoo and was halfway through rubbing a palmful of it into her scalp before the smell of fresh, untamed air, pine and musk overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes as she lathered the scent of him into the ends of her hair, trying not to think about the first time she had smelt Cassian up close; the feeling of his nose as it grazed the curve of her neck, the heat from his body…

With a growl she snapped herself out of the memory and tipped her head back to wash away the suds. It did her no good to think of Cassian like that. She had drawn an unforgiving barrier across the path between them, a blockade against all of them so immovable that they had given up on her. 

Watching the suds stream out of her hair and swirl down the drain, Nesta concentrated on freezing over the small crack that had started to spider in one of her mental bricks of ice. By the time she had scrubbed her skin clean — of course, his soap smelt the exact same — and pulled the shirt over her head, her wall was impenetrable. 

Good. She had a feeling she’d need it today.

A few minutes later, Nesta entered the kitchen to find Cassian at the stove removing a saucepan from the heat. He poured the contents into a teapot and turned to place it on the kitchen table. He stopped when he saw her, his eyes snagging on her bare legs, before travelling up her body, slowly drinking in the sight of her in his shirt, her damp hair...

His eyes gleamed and his nostrils flared. Deep down in the depths of her gut, something twisted. 

She raised her chin defiantly. If he’d had the audacity to deprive her of her belongings, she was going to do everything in her power to unnerve him, and she knew that the sight of her in his shirt would throw him off centre.

“Well, you certainly look better in my shirt than that other males,” he drawled eventually.

Nesta didn’t grace him with one of her disgusted snorts. She only ignored him as she slid into one of the low back chairs at the kitchen table. He turned back to the stove unbothered, and she watched the solid set of his broad shoulders as he transferred whatever he was cooking to a plate. 

He was dressed in brown fighting leathers today. He wore an olive green tunic over the top and an empty weapons belt was slung low on his hips. Despite the gear, Cassian looked relaxed… casual. Even his hair was down and shining, rather than windswept and tied back. 

Cassian cast her a look over his shoulder. “Did you figure out how to redirect the water to the spout above the bath?”

Resetting her frigid posture, Nesta said tightly, “Yes.”

“Good.” 

He set a glass with an inch of amber liquid in front of her.

“Drink this first,” he ordered. “It will help.”

Disbelieving, Nesta took the glass and sniffed. The familiar smell of alcohol hit her, paired with woody undertones — he had given her whisky. She tilted the glass towards her, watching the liquid tip invitingly, but didn’t make a move to drink it.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Cassian’s hand grasp the edge of the table. She could sense his closeness; smell the notes of pine and musk and that clean, bracing taste of sky. She gripped the glass hard but her body betrayed her: her hand shook. 

She hated herself for it.

“You’re not the only one who has dealt with alcohol withdrawal,” Cassian said, his voice surprisingly soft. “I don’t fancy Nesta Archeron going cold turkey, so drink up. That should stave off the shakes for a bit.”

The alcohol burnt the back of her throat as she knocked back the whisky. Immediately, her body purred in thanks, that numbness seeping into her bones. It wasn’t enough to completely rid her of sensation… but it would do for now. 

“Good,” Cassian said, putting the empty glass in the sink and placing a pot of tea and a plate of plain, toasted bread onto the table. “Now eat.”

The command was clear but her stomach rolled. She shook her head.

“ _Nesta_.” 

It surprised her that his voice was pleading now. His large hand gripped hers, his fingers encircling her too slim wrist as he slid into the chair beside her. 

“Please eat something. You’re wasting away.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“ _Liar._ ” 

Nesta stilled at the force behind the word, and deep inside her, the beast stirred. Cassian froze, as if he too knew what lurked beneath her skin. She took a long breath, slowing the thrum of her veins until the creature went quiet; slumbering in the darkness.

“I can’t,” she snapped.

Cassian studied her for a moment, settling back in his chair as if he was there to stay. They sat in stalemate for what felt like eons, their gaze never breaking. Cocking his head to the side, Cassian stared at her as if she were a puzzle he was trying to figure out, his gaze assessing.

Everything about him screamed General — a warrior who would take no shit — but it seemed that her stubborn defiance won out as he suddenly stood and strode towards some double doors set into the wall. He disappeared inside, emerging with a jug of purple liquid. 

He poured it into a new glass and set it in front of her. “It seems we're sticking to a liquid diet. Drink up.”

“What is it?” 

She examined the contents and smelt… berries? Her stomach growled but for once, there was no sweeping nausea.

Cassian snickered. “You’ll like it.”

It annoyed her more than he knew that she _did_ like it. It tasted of summer and honey — of warm, lazy days in the garden with Elain, reading a book on the grass. 

“Ok?” he asked. 

He was watching her closely, as if he was ready to whisk her to the bathroom as soon as she started retching.

After a few tentative sips, she reached for the tea pot he had placed on the table. She poured a milky tea into her mug — the only thing she had really wanted for breakfast — and sighed as she tasted it, the sound escaping her before she could stop it. It wasn’t black tea after all. No, it was unlike anything she had tasted before. It was warming and fiery and sweet, with hints of ginger and cinnamon and cloves…? She almost didn’t care what was in it. All she knew was that it was the best thing she had ever tasted and under no circumstances could she let him know.

Looking up over the rim of her mug, she found Cassian staring at her brazenly.

“Stop watching me,” she ordered coldly. 

A slow, cocky grin. “Why? Does it unnerve you, Nesta?”

She arched an eyebrow — a picture of cool indifference. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Leaning back in his chair, Cassian stretched his wings lazily. “What better things do I have to do but spend time with an angry witch?”

Drinking deeply from her mug to stop herself from snarling, Nesta bought her time to reinstate that expressionless mask. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to rile her, provoke her until she snapped, because emotion was better than no emotion. 

But she was fed up of these petty games, so she got straight to the point.  “I need my clothes.”

Cassian smirked. “I think you look fine.”

“I am not here to amuse you,” she hissed. 

“What a pity,” Cassian said, helping himself to her toast. “Here I was, looking forward to my strip tease.” 

He spread a large dollop of strawberry jam over the bread. It reminded Nesta of the remains of the battlefield victims that had faced Styrga. She looked away.

“Although,” Cassian mused, “Mas usually arrives at midday and I’d hate to scare her off.”

“I believe we were talking about my clothes before you wandered off into your far-fetched fantasy,” she snapped.

“Speaking of Mas,” Cassian continued conversationally, as if she hadn’t even opened her mouth. He took a bite of toast, “aside from the Inner Circle, she is the only person who is allowed in and out of these premises. Nobody else is allowed to enter without my say so and anybody who tries to get in, will find the magic around the door and windows throwing them backwards thirty feet.”

Nesta snorted at that. Oh, she saw straight though that casual announcement. It was wholly laughable that he thought that she would bring someone back to his own house. It was nice, she thought, to think that not even he thought she had a sense of boundaries. 

So she hit him where it hurt. 

“And am I allowed to leave? Or am I trapped here just like Feyre with her half-wit ex-boyfriend?”

Lowering the toast that was halfway to his mouth, Cassian levelled her with a hard stare, one that he no doubt used to keep his armies in line. She stared right back at him, her body frozen with that unnatural stillness that she knew scared the shit out of all of his happy, little circle — him included. 

Leaning over the table, Cassian curled his fingers around her arm. They were warm, like fire to her ice. 

She didn’t move an inch as his voice dropped an octave, so it was little more than a rumble as he said, “Listen _sweetheart_ , Illyria is not like Velaris. You can explore the camp as you like in the day, but at night it is not safe for you. The drinking hole here is dangerous for females and the bastards here will not think twice to take what they desire — and i’m not talking consensual. Do you understand what i’m saying?”

Her chair legs scraped angrily against the floor as she stood up. She was done. 

“ _Am_ I to wear this all day or did anyone in your happy circle deign to bring _any_ of my belongings?” she snarled. 

Cassian moved so fast he became a blur. Before she had time to blink, his hand was across the doorway, blocking her from her exiting the kitchen.

“Nesta,” he said fiercely. “Am. I. Clear.”

She surveyed him for a moment, taking in his broad heaving chest and the dark tattoos that snaked up his arms. Then she stepped towards him.

The first thing she noticed was his warm, ragged breath on her cheek. And the smell of him... it was overwhelming, as if it sung to her and only her. Slowly, she turned her face up to his, relishing in the way that every muscle in his body tensed. Satisfaction thrummed through her as his dark eyes flitted to her lips — as if he couldn’t help himself — before his gaze locked with hers. The action alone was like a key clicking as it turned in a lock and heat flared inside of her. It was a warmth that started in her chest and flooded through every bone in her body, threatening to thaw the ice that coated her veins…

“Nesta,” Cassian murmured, her name like a prayer on his lips. 

His hands dropped to rest lightly on her waist and her chest burned and pulsed. There was no other way to describe it. No other way to explain that pulsing in her blood that felt fast and slow all at once. Nesta waited — she waited patiently until his resolve wavered and his breath hitched. 

As his head bent towards hers, she shoved him hard in the chest. And Nesta questioned his ability as a warrior when he stepped back in surprise, leaving the doorway open wide for her to step neatly past.

She held her head high as a primal snarl ripped from him, the sound reverberating around the room with such force that the shelves rattled. 

Pausing at her bedroom door, Nesta finally deigned to look back at him.

Cassian was staring at her, his eyes stunned and burning with unbridled rage. She wondered how many women had refused him before her. None, she would wager, apart from Mor.

If she could have, she would have laughed. 

But she couldn’t, so all she said was, “We are crystal clear. Now leave me alone.”


	3. I don't like fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta starts to withdraw, Mor comes to visit and Cassian visits Cragg's Peak.

**Chapter Three**  
**Cassian**  


Cassian sighed and put down the papers in his hand. He had spent the last few hours going over the updated list of figures Rhys and Az had given to him before he left. The discontent amongst the clans was growing at an alarming rate and he didn’t know how to stop it. He could deal with the Illyrian’s hating him — he had dealt with that his entire bastard-given life — but the thought that he could be the reason they went head-to-head in a civil war felt like a knife to the gut.

Guilt still ate away at him at the memory of those soldiers turning to ash before his eyes. He dreamt of it most nights; of Nesta screaming his name, the sound a dull roar in his ears as he turned without thinking and flew straight towards her. Even now, he felt the terror that had lanced through his body at the thought that she was hurt; that he wouldn’t be in time to save her; that they had wasted so much time… 

But in the end, the matter still stood: he had left his soldiers to die for a female that had rejected him and he would never forgive himself for it. Their families had every right to despise him. He despised himself. 

Resigned, Cassian fastened the papers with string as Mas came through the back door. She smiled at him, pushing back her snow-covered hood in the entryway. He watched her flare her wings behind her, flinging the wet snow that had settled on them during her journey back out into the snow.

The mottled mass of scar tissue across the housekeeper’s dark membrane was bared when her wings were fully-stretched. It always pained Cassian to see them — to know how she had suffered every day at the hands of others before he had put a stop to it. 

That was something else that was getting worse too: the treatment of females amongst the camps. The clippings. 

Windhaven was the exception, especially with Cassian being based at the camp full-time: it meant he was there to keep an eye on things. And whilst Lord Devlon may be a pain in his ass at the best of times, he was a fairer Camp Lord than most and generally followed Rhys’ laws — even if he did grumble and snarl along the way. 

But at the other camps where the clans were still rooted in old tradition, clippings were still frequent. They happened behind closed doors out of the public eye, but Cassian had seen young females who couldn’t have had more than one or two bleedings with those silver lines down their wings. It made him want to kill — to rip the camps apart like he had done before until he found who was responsible — but it would only encourage the dissent amongst the males. Cassian needed to catch the bastards in the act if he were to punish anyone, so he stayed silent, filing away the information to include in his reports. 

Because the uncomfortable truth of it was that the Illyrian’s had just lost vast numbers of warriors to war, and with their depleted numbers, they were doing everything they could to ensure the continuity of their race. For them, that meant clipping their females so they couldn’t fly away. Fae pregnancies were rare and precious as it was, and those traditional Illyrian bastards would be damned if they allowed one female to leave if they had the potential to pop out a worthy warrior to join their ranks.

Cassian had been too late to save his mother. He had been too late to save Mas’s wings. He would not be too late to save others. He couldn’t live with it. 

Not wanting to be caught staring at the scar tissue, Cassian adjusted his gaze just as Mas dipped her head in her customary nod. She held up a paper bag. 

“For Lady Nesta,” she explained.

Cassian forced himself to smile. “Thanks Mas. Was it much trouble?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “I made the dresses to your exact measurements, but I can alter them if you need me to. They will be easy to take out.” 

A slight pause followed, as if to emphasise the fact that Nesta was too thin. As if he wasn’t horribly aware of it already. 

“Everything else you asked me for is in there, too,” she added.

“Thank you.”

“And this is for you.” 

Mas balanced a glass vial on the table in front of him. 

He looked at her in surprise. “Lavender oil?”

“To help you sleep.”

He started to shake his head in protest but she cut him off. “ _Anak_ , you pay me enough. Let me do this for you.”

Cassian closed his fingers around the small bottle. Lavender oil wasn’t expensive but it wasn’t cheap either. Even though he paid her handsomely, Mas continued to live in the widow’s camp halfway up the mountain, where she was exposed to some of the harshest weather conditions Illyria had to offer. To trek up the cliff was treacherous at the best of times, without factoring in the battering winds and the threat of ice and snow. It made his piss-poor tent at the edge of the camp look like a luxury when he was growing up. Before his brother had saved him, of course. 

Cassian only wished that Mas would let him save her, too. But he knew he wouldn’t win that battle. Mas might need the money for warmer clothes and food for the other widows and orphans, but she was an Illyrian through and through. That meant that she was _stubborn._ He’d have to make up the money to her in another way.  


“I could do with something to help me sleep,” Cassian admitted finally.

Mas simply nodded at him before eyeing the empty saucepan on the stove. She raised an eyebrow. “You made chai? Shall I make some more?”

Cassian stood with the paper bag in hand. “Please. Add the ingredients to the shopping list from now on.” 

Because no matter how hard Nesta had tried to hide it, Cassian had seen the way she had sighed around her mug at the first taste of chai. It was the only thing she’d willingly consumed at breakfast. Mother Above, he’d have it on _tap_ if it meant she’d drink something other than whisky.

“I’ll go and give these to Nesta now,” Cassian told Mas.

It was time to face the hellcat. 

* * *

  
Moments later, Cassian was poised outside of the spare bedroom. Not allowing himself to hesitate, he rapped his knuckles against the wood. 

“Go away.”

It was not an unexpected response, given their last interaction.  
  
And even though his insides snarled in annoyance, Cassian refused to allow it to show in his voice, as he said wryly, “Don’t tell me you’ve traded my shirt for nothing but skin.”

The actual thought of Nesta bared made his mouth go dry and he fought the urge to swallow. To say he wasn’t reeling from that old trick she had played on him earlier would be a lie. Having her that close to him and smelling his scent all over her... it had taken all his control not to do something he would regret. Like shoving her against the nearest wall and burying his head between her legs. 

Cassian had thought at one point that he had felt something flare between them; a flare that had him breaking every one of his damned rules about staying away. But then she had shoved him with a strength that had sent him staggering and the moment was broken. It was the first true sign he had seen of her powers since Hybern. 

In some twisted wring of fate, it had only made him want her more. 

For the most part, Cassian had stopped bedding females after Nesta had been Made. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, he just didn’t have the appetite for it. It was something that hadn't gone unnoticed by his friends — they had never known him to go so long without having a tussle amongst the sheets. The result had been some off-hand comments, with Rhys remarking on more than one occasion that the muscles in Cassian’s right arm looked overworked. The last time he’d made the observation had been at dinner: Azriel’s laughter had been so uninhibited his shadows had completely disappeared and Mor — in her usual fashion — had snorted so hard that wine had come out of her nose.

Feyre, to her credit, had only looked pityingly at him — as if she knew the exact reason why he was no longer fucking like it was going out of fashion — as she silently handed Mor a napkin. 

But Cassian wasn’t a saint. There had been a few occasions in the past year when his judgement had lapsed; it was usually when he’d gotten outrageously drunk or when a recent encounter with Nesta had left him furious and hollow. The former usually followed the latter and Cassian always felt awful afterwards, especially when he’d peer through bleary, red eyes with a pounding hangover to realise that he’d chosen a female with a similar body shape or hair or eyes to the eldest Archeron sister.

At least he wouldn’t be making any further bedding mistakes in Illyria. Cassian wouldn’t bed any of the females here. They were victims of his race’s sexist traditions as it was, and he’d be damned if he added fuel to the fire by fucking for a moments pleasure, especially when a lowly bastard would do nothing for their marriage prospects. 

Now, Cassian listened outside of Nesta’s door and waited for a response. When none came, he turned the knob and pushed it open. 

Nesta was sitting with her back against the headboard of the bed, an open book in her hands. She was still wearing his shirt, but her legs were covered with the duvet and the throw he had draped over her last night. The room was so cold his breath clouded in front of him.

She did not bother to look up at him as he entered, and even though anger bloomed within him, he strode wordlessly towards the empty fire grate and started to stack logs from the wicker basket. 

But one word from her made him still. 

“Don’t.” Nesta did not look up from her book. She merely turned the page. Unfazed. Bored. “I don’t like fires.”

Cassian blinked, surprised at the finality in her voice. He had seen her guard the armchair next to the fireplace in the town house as fiercely as Amren surveilled her jewellery. He knew, because he used to spend his entire time there pretending not to look at her. Stupid of him really, seeing as everyone else most likely spent their time watching him watch her.

Deciding to tread carefully, Cassian tucked away the nugget of information she had offered him for later analysis. 

“You’ll soon change your mind living here,” he said casually.

Nesta pushed a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. It was still loose, the ends curling softly as they dried. She looked younger with her hair down and even more beautiful, if that was possible, despite her too-thin face. It made her features softer… less sharp. Sometimes he forgot that she was only twenty-four. How many mistakes had he made by that age? Too many to count — the worst being Mor… He still regretted that.

Nesta still didn’t glance up at him as she said, “I won’t change my mind.” 

Cassian wanted to push her further — to ask her why — but he had been a General long enough to know when to let something lie. So he changed tactic, striding towards the head of the bed. 

He fed her a shit-eating grin that he knew would have left pre-war Nesta incensed. 

“Smut again?” he asked lightly.

It worked. Nesta snapped the book shut and set it over knees.

Finally _—_ _finally —_ those steely eyes rested on him. “I hadn’t pegged an Illyrian bat as a reader of romance.”

Cassian tilted his head to the side so he could read the book title: _Love in Velaris._ Oh, there was _definitely_ smut in that book. He knew because he’d purchased it with her in mind. He’d visited a bookshop soon after Feyre had pinned him down at the House of Wind. The shopkeeper had promised him that the tale of a High Fae and Lesser Faerie discovering their mating bond was a _very_ passionate read. 

“It must be Mor’s,” he lied smoothly. 

It was the wrong thing to say. Nesta’s expression turned as cold as stone.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

Dangling the bag of supplies Mas had brought with her in front of her face, he said drily, “I believe you were asking for clothes?”

That stubborn chin rose again. It was a signature move from Nesta Archeron and was already well-catalogued in his mind. 

“I want my own clothes.” 

“I know,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, Azriel got held up. He’ll be here tomorrow morning. Most of your clothes won’t be warm enough though, you’d be best off with Illyrian clothing. Mas made you some dresses that should do the job. All of the essentials should be in the bag too, but let me or Mas know if you want anything else.”

Dropping the bag onto the bed by her feet he settled down onto the mattress beside her. He hoped it would annoy her — that it would encourage her to hiss at him — because any reaction was a good reaction at this stage.

Satisfaction bloomed inside of him as she purposefully tucked her feet even closer to her body with a glare that promised a slow and painful death.

Cassian had seen lesser glares start wars.

“I need to show my face in the camp. Come with me,” he said.

Her answer was defiant and didn’t miss a beat. “No.”

“It isn’t an option. Get dressed.” 

For him, it was an effortless shift into the role of General and one he’d happily do more often if it made her come out of that hollow shell. It worked — something shifted behind her eyes at his command. It was dark and ancient and it _thrilled_ him.

“I said no,” Nesta snapped. “Just because you have whisked me to a secluded mountain camp against my will does not mean I will obey your every command. I do not wish to go, so leave me alone.”

She stared him down, daring him to challenge her. And she expected him to, because that was the twisted game they played; as sharp as any sword fight. _Strike, parry, strike_ , until one of them was so wounded or consumed with rage that they couldn’t carry on.

So Cassian did the unexpected: he shrugged. 

“Suit yourself,” he said. 

Slowly, he stood. He made a point of stretching, of giving the impression that he was nothing but relaxed, stretching his wings until he felt the burn in his tendons. Eventually, when he knew she was close to throwing something at him, he closed the door behind him and finally left her alone.  
  


* * *

  
Over the next six days, Cassian barely saw Nesta. At first he brought her food — soup and smoothies, and plenty of chai tea. The whisky came at tapered intervals and he did everything in his power to get some conversation out of her… But as she slipped further and further into withdrawal, she retreated deeper into herself. Soon enough, she was little more than a shaking, sweating frame of bones. 

Nesta always ignored him and eventually he stopped coming at all — he couldn’t bare to see the hollow look in her eyes — and when Mas cleared the trays the food was half gone at best. At worst, the food was untouched. 

She always drank the whisky.

At night he slept fitfully, jolting awake when he heard her retching. Often he found himself half way to the bathroom before he realised he had moved without thinking. Forcing himself back into bed, he would lay awake and stare at the ceiling until he heard her door snick shut. Visions of her panting and sweating as she rested her head on the toilet seat, or as she curled up on the cold tile floor, haunted him. And he dreamt of the war; as his wings were snapped again and again at the hand of the King and she draped herself across his broken body; of the males he lost as the Cauldron was unleashed, their ash tossed about on the fierce wind.

Wanting to do _something,_ Cassian asked Mas to supply Nesta with even more warmer clothing and toiletries. He made sure she had fleece-lined nightgowns and socks to ward off the chill, fresh bedding and tonics to calm her stomach. He gave her a bag of her belongings, which Az had winnowed in on the second day. But she just lay in bed, curled in a ball, her eyes glazed and unmoved.

In the meantime, he oversaw daily training and reasserted his power with the arrogant War Lords in the surrounding camps. He fought everyday with anyone who dared to face him; fought until his knuckles bled and his siphons blinkered until they were near drained. He always returned home and he delayed his trip further north. 

He still couldn’t stay away.

* * *

  
Mor winnowed into Windhaven on the seventh day, just after he had finished overseeing the girls morning training with Devlon. Only four girls had showed up and he was in a piss poor mood as he stomped back to the house, only to see his friend appear on the melting snow just outside of the house — a ray of sunshine in the otherwise grey and white landscape.

Wrapping her long white cloak around her body to shield her from the wind that whistled through the mountain pass, Mor smiled at him, her long golden hair whipping behind her. Cassian forced his mouth to do the same and lifted a hand in greeting. It took more effort than he liked to admit.

“It’s not like you to come to Illyria of your own free will, dearest Morrigan. What do I owe the pleasure?” he drawled.

He flashed her a grin but Mor’s smile dropped as he approached. Only concern lay across her features as she closed the distance between them and wrapped her fingers around his sleeve. 

“Cassian, you look —“ She searched for the word as her eyes examined his face, “ravaged.”

“What a way to greet one of your oldest friends,” he teased. “You may as well have said; _Cassian, you look like shit._ ”

Mor rolled her eyes. “I did _not_ say that.” She stamped her feet to ward off the cold. "Can we go inside? It's freezing.”

They shucked off their shoes and headed straight to the kitchen once they were inside. Mor was unusually silent, as if she knew not to speak until they were past the spare bedroom whose door was firmly closed.

Cassian had briefly seen Nesta that morning. He had taken her breakfast: a smoothie — the only food she usually touched — and her last glass of whisky. He had been pleased to see her sitting up in bed when he came in, even if she did smell like vomit and her hair was hanging limp and tangled around her face. She looked more gaunt than ever, her collarbone jutting out starkly from the loose nightgown she was wearing.

It had made his heart ache, but he had only placed the whisky on the small bedside table, as he said, “Last one. How are you feeling?”

Those empty eyes had slid to him then and for a moment, he thought she was going to speak to him. But then she had sunk down onto the mattress, her body twisting away from him in silent dismissal so he had left, reassuring her that Mas would be there to in a few hours to check up on her. 

Again, it had been the lack of cold admonishment that she could look after herself that had haunted him the most — the crushing silence that lay in its absence. It had made him miss her fire more than anything.

“Is it too early to drink?” Mor asked, dragging him out of his thoughts as she peered hopefully at the clock above the kitchen table.

“I’m currently an alcohol free household,” he reminded her. “I can offer you tea?”

“Ah yes,” Mor chirruped, hopping up on to the kitchen counter as he put the cast iron kettle on top of the stove. “How is everything going?”

Cassian pressed his lips together. “Badly.”

Mor knew him well enough not to push for more details. “And the camps?”

“Worse.”

Mor’s face darkened as he told her about the past few days; about the brutalised females he had seen despite the laws Rhys had put in place and the hatred swelling in the few camps he had already visited; their anger at Rhys and the inner circle for taking them to war — for the Illyrian’s that had died under his command.

Just rehashing it had the guilt settling over him like a dark cloud.

“I’ve been trying to reassert dominance,” he explained to Mor, “but the dissent is there. I can feel it and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Mor sipped her tea. She had listened in silence whilst he spoke, but now she set down her mug. 

“Maybe Azriel should come and join you. He could help —“

“I will not make Az come here unless things are desperate. You know how he hates this place,” Cassian said tersely, cutting her off.

Mor’s expression hardened, a mirror image of his own as they thought of their friend — of the brutality he had endured at the hand of his own people.

“And how are the Illyrian’s treating Nesta?” 

A smooth transition — an opening Mor had been waiting for, no doubt.  


“She won’t leave the house,” Cassian said shortly. “She won’t leave her room. She spends her night throwing her guts up and her days shaking and sweating.”

Mor laid a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “She’s withdrawing. It will take a while. Mother Above, it took you a few weeks if I remember correctly.”

Fisting his palms in his eye sockets, Cassian sighed. “She won’t accept any help. She barely eats. She doesn't sleep —”

“And neither do you by the looks of it,” Mor said sharply. “Cass, let me winnow you back to the House. You can get a good nights sleep and come back tomorrow…”

“No.” The clipped word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. “I’m not leaving her alone.”

Mor looked as if she were about to protest and then seemed to think better of it. She clamped her lips tightly shut instead, as if it were taking all her will to trap them so whatever she wanted to say didn’t come tumbling out.

“Sorry,’ he breathed after a few moments. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was watching him, solemn.

Her golden hair swayed as she shook her head. “No, i’m sorry. I shouldn't have suggested it.”

Cassian laughed but it came out bitter. “No, you aren’t.”  


It was no secret that Mor had lashed out at Nesta multiple times — that she had defended him from Nesta’s fire. Out of protectiveness or jealousy he wasn’t sure. He was never sure with Mor. He was glad he had never been around to see it, though. The thought of the two females going head-to-head filled him with dread.

Mor took a sudden deep breath, as if she were bracing herself. Her hands twisted in front of her, anguished. Cassian’s brow furrowed at the behaviour.

“I actually came to tell you something.”

He took her empty mug and put it in the sink. Played it casual. “Oh?”

She slid off the kitchen counter, landing softly on the flagstone tiles. Mor was always the epitome of grace and beauty. Even on the battlefield when she was slaying her enemies and knee-deep in blood and gore and filth, Mor remained fiercely elegant — a light on an otherwise dark horizon.

“Rhys has asked me to travel. To forge new alliances and gather information.”

Cassian frowned in surprise. “For how long?”

Mor shrugged. “I don’t know. I came to say goodbye. I’ll be back every few weeks or so, but with you up here…” 

She trailed off.

“And the Court of Nightmares?” Cassian asked quietly. 

He knew what giving that up would have meant to her. To let Keir think that he had won; that she was giving up her duties to run away and leave him to frequent Velaris as he wished — her haven.

Anguish spread across Mor’s features. “Rhys and Feyre. I wasn’t going to go when Rhys suggested it, but… I think it will be good for me. I need to separate myself from Keir and well, I need to accept some of my own truths as well.”

She turned to face him, as if what she had just said had led her to her main point. To his surprise, her eyes welled with tears.

“Cassian, I haven’t been honest with you.”

“Hey now,” Cassian hushed, automatically pulling her to him as she held her hands up to cover the tears that slid down her cheeks, “it can’t be as bad as the time you lost my best Adaman blade.”

Mor let out an indignant sniffle. “That wasn’t me, it was Rhys.”

“So you keep saying,” Cassian said lightly, “Yet Azriel swore on the Cauldron that he saw you take it from the weapons rack.” 

He pulled back to survey her and affectionately tucked her blonde hair behind a pointed ear. “Now, what is it you need to tell me? I promise I won’t be mad.”

She sent him a watery smile as he cupped her cheek. Taking his hands in her own, Mor examined the white-flecked scars and the swirling black ink that licked its way down his arms.

She took a shaking breath and looked him straight in the eye. The action oozed finality and for some reason, he found himself trapping the air in his lungs, as she said, “I like females more than males.”

Cassian stared at her for a moment, cataloguing the information. Analysing. And then everything clicked into place. He saw every moment between them. All of the times that he had acted as a buffer between her and Azriel; the haunted look in her eyes the days after he had ever seen her disappear with a male into the bedroom; her dancing and laughing at Rita’s…

And there was no anger or disappointment. His heart didn’t stop or clench. He only felt lighter; as if her confession was releasing him from centuries of confusion and uncertainty.

A slow grin spread across his face as he loosed a breath. “Was I that bad in bed?”

Mor snorted a laugh as Cassian pressed a kiss to her hand. He rejoiced in that — in his friend's smile. 

“You’re an idiot.”

“Whatever sex you prefer makes no difference to me, Mor. I will never love you any less.”

She wiped away her tears. “I’m so sorry I used you. Not just that night but… after. And I do… _I do_ enjoy males, but I have always preferred females. I’ve known… since I was very young.”

Cassian shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you had the confidence to tell me. No female should be chained to a male, you know I think that. I just want you to be happy.”

He pulled her to him then and she wrapped her arms around him as he squeezed her tight.

“Hey,” he said into her hair, a realisation suddenly dawning on him, “is Rita’s…?”

The corners of Mor’s mouth twitch upwards. “An incognito gay bar? Pretty much.”

“Well, that confirms why I get approached by so many males there,” Cassian mused.

Mor’s shaky laugh was full of relief and indignation. “Only you and Rhys would have such huge egos that you would expect males to proposition you whenever you’re out.”

Cassian let her go with a smirk. “I’m the general of our _armies,_ Mor.”

“And so modest about it,” she quipped.

“Did you know I have _seven_ siphons?”

“Listen to yourself!”

He laughed, the first time he had done so in over a week and as he did so, he felt the darkness evaporate, as if a weight had been lifted from him. 

Then he sobered. “Does Az know?”

Mor bit her lip, anguished. 

“No. Only Feyre knows. I was going to speak to the boys tonight. Separately of course,” she added when she saw his expression.

Cassian dipped his head in approval. “Azriel needs the closure.”

“I know,” Mor admitted quietly. “I will. I’ll… go to the House and speak to him. Do you — do you think he’ll forgive me?”

Her eyes were wide and fearful.

Cassian wanted to say yes — to make her worry disappear — but he couldn’t lie. He owed her that much. 

“I don’t know.”

* * *

Mor had left an hour later. They had sat at the kitchen table with another cup of tea and many snacks; because as she had explained in a low whine, she had only eaten breakfast an hour ago and she might die of hunger if she didn’t eat _right now._

He had let her talk, listening as she explained herself and laid herself bare for the first time. By the time she got up to leave, he felt closer to her than he ever had before, and he was glad for it.

He had smiled at her as she fastened her white fur cloak around her neck. “Don’t be a stranger, ok?”

“I won’t,” she promised.

She had waited until they were outside to ask, “Nesta’s different from the other females, isn’t she?”

Cassian had shrugged loosely, largely because he didn’t know what else to say. How to even start explaining he and Nesta Archeron: how everything had shifted and solidified on that battlefield when she’d draped herself over him; how for a moment everything had made sense.

“She is different,” Mor insisted. “I can see it on your face. Feyre’s beside herself with worry. She thinks she’s betrayed her sister.”

“It was an impossible situation.” Cassian knew his voice was too quiet, but it was too late to correct it. “Whatever we did, we’d come off badly.”

With a grimace, Mor handed him two envelopes.

“Letters from Feyre and Elain,” she explained. “Will you give them to Nesta?”

Cassian had only considered her outstretched hand warily.

Mor seemed to know what he was thinking. “I know, it might just add fuel to the fire. Take them anyway and make a decision.”

“Right,” was all he had said, as if he could really defy his High Lady.

“Az said he’ll be with you in a few days for an update.” Mor hugged him tightly. “I’ll check in on you when I can.”

He had managed a smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes, before she disappeared into nothing.

Since then, he had done very little but sit on the couch by the fire, going over that same list of numbers and intel. Again and again he poured over them but the words and numbers just became a blur as his eyes went in and out of focus. 

By the Cauldron, he needed to sleep. 

With a sigh, Cassian put the papers down on the coffee table. When he padded into the kitchen, he found Mas washing up in the sink.

“Ok, sinta?” she called over her shoulder.

Not wanting to answer the question, Cassian deflected. “Do you want a cup of tea, Mas?”

Despite the fact he’d known Mas for years — centuries in fact — she dropped her gaze. “No, thank you.”

Cassian bit back a sigh of frustration. The expectations of Illyrian females had been rooted so deep that even Mas — the female closest to his mother — wouldn’t let him make her a cup of tea. He ignored her, firmly placing two mugs from the cupboard to the right of the stove on the kitchen counter.

She watched him with wary eyes and when he looked at her pointedly, colour stained her cheeks. She nodded in thanks — the only acknowledgement she could muster — before she buried her hands beneath the bubbles and the clinking of dishes filled the room.

A comfortable silence fell between them as he filled the kettle and turned on the stove. 

“Lady Nesta drank all of her chai and smoothie today,” Mas said after a while, just as Cassian poured hot water over some fresh mint leaves — Mas’s favourite.

His breath caught in his throat. “And the soup?”

“More than usual. A few bites of bread, too.”

Cassian swallowed and focussed on slowing the thump, thump, thump of his heart. 

“That’s… good,” he said slowly.

“I’ve never seen such a sad Diyosa.” Mas said, shaking her head lamentably as she stacked the dishes on the wire drying rack. “You are doing a good thing, looking after her. She feels too much. It is her burden.”

_A sad goddess._ The name was surprisingly fitting, Cassian thought, even if he would sooner call Nesta sweetheart just to see her spit at him. 

“You can sense her powers?” he asked curiously.

Mas shrugged. “I feel something rolling in the deep; something sinister… unchecked.”

Cassian knew what she meant. He still felt it sometimes when Nesta deigned to look at him. Behind her eyes when he riled her or in the defiant lift of her chin. A few times, he had felt her power from a distance, like on the battlefield at Hybern — a siren luring males out to sea. Dark and beautiful. Irresistible. 

“She won’t even speak to me,” Cassian confessed. 

Mas shrugged. “She is just coping in her own way. Let her come to you, sinta. She’s no longer shaking and sweating. The sheets were dry this morning when I came in. Did you hear her visit the bathroom in the night?”

A polite way to ask if he’d heard her retching up her guts.

“No,” he confessed.

In fact, it had been so eerily quiet that he had got out of bed to listen at her bedroom door for signs of life. He had waited until he had heard the rustle of the sheets and the clear thrum of her erratic heartbeat before padding back to his own room.

“I will take her some soup now.” Mas patted his arm. “She will be better, you’ll see.”

Cassian could only hope that Mas was right.

* * *

Cassian finally relented and visited the first of the camps further north. With nobody to winnow him back and forth, he had to rely solely on his wings. That meant conceding to an overnight trip, which unwittingly turned into an additional night due to high winds.

The situation was even worse at the tip of the Illyrian territory according to Azriel’s information, and Cassian was determined to find out whether his brother’s intelligence was correct. 

The treatment of females at Craggs Peak camp had always been more barbaric than in Windhaven. Illyrian’s were raised with an unrivalled arrogance and their females were mistreated to a such a degree that Cassian would have usually called in Rhys. And he would have, if he hadn’t known that hauling in their High Lord to kick them down like puppies would only add fuel to the underground movement rather than deter it.

Instead, he watched. Cassian analysed every movement, every activity and every word of anybody he came across. He made a point of walking the camp morning and night; ofbeing present in the sparring rings to praise and discipline the males where necessary. Most importantly, he made sure to fight; to remind them of his power and that what he was capable of in battle still rang true. That even if he was a bastard, he was still the most powerful General in Illyrian history.

Yet despite his actions, something felt off. Out of the sparring ring, there were more sneering glances and looks out of the corners of the Illyrian’s eyes than usual, most upsettingly from the females. No girls turned up for training and for once Cassian didn’t challenge it, for fear of confirming their ill-informed suspicions that he believed all of his race to be expendable if he dragged any females unwillingly to the weapon’s rack.

He even made a point to turn down Lord Hamel’s offer to clear out one of the houses for him to sleep in. Instead, he pitched a tent on the outskirts of the camp — anything to stress that he wasn’t too good to sleep on the same hard ground as his soldiers. 

Consequentially, he spent his nights clutching his favourite blade whilst he slept fitfully in his leathers and all seven of his siphons. At one point, he had woken with a start, the tang of unbridled fear overwhelming his entire senses, only to remember dreaming of the log fire back home in Windhaven, and the clang of the door as it was thrown shut. 

By the time Cassian finally landed outside of the stone house in the early hours of the morning, his whole body was heavy. His wings had burned with such cold during the flight home he had used his power to shield his body and take the edge off — something he rarely ever allowed himself to do. 

It was good practice to endure all weather conditions as a warrior, but even he had felt panic seize hold of him as the wind threw him back a few feet in a particularly sudden gust. Whilst it hadn't taken him long to set himself right, it had highlighted what he hadn’t wanted to admit — that even he was expendable to the elements. If he hadn’t been so keen to get back to Windhaven, he would have listened to his senses and stayed another night.

Despite the late hour, smoke rose from the bungalow’s chimney when he landed. An unknown burst of energy surged through his blood, pulling him towards the light that illuminated the house thanks to the slightly parted curtains in the living room.

He found Nesta curled up in the corner of the couch, a book open on her knees when he came through the door. Those steel-blue eyes of hers were already staring at him, slowly tracking his body from the feet up until they met his eyes, unflinching.

She was placed as far away from the log burner as possible, her body practically tucked into one of the right angle of the u-shaped couch. The fire glowed orange with the dregs of embers — as if Nesta had gotten distracted by her book and forgotten to replenish the wood. It would appear Nesta’s dislike of fires didn’t extend to the log burner. That, or she’d got so cold in his absence that she had given in and moved to the fire Mas kept going all day.

He tried not to flinch as she continued to stare, as if she were searching for something in his eyes; an answer to a question he didn’t understand.

Cassian wanted her to stop staring at the same time he hoped she’d never stop. Somehow, he made his body bend so he could make quick work of the laces on his boots. It gave him time to hide his surprise at finding her out of her room, showered and collected rather than coated in sweat and smelling like vomit. 

He willed everything into making his voice conversational, as he asked, “Couldn’t sleep?

As soon as the boots were off of his feet he moved to the fire. Stretching his wings wide he groaned at the instant heat as it soaked into the membrane; the ice cold numbness dissipating into a tingling, delicious warmth.

Nesta’s gaze did not falter as she tracked his every movement. Her eyes swept over the apex of his wings — where the bones had been snapped and rendered useless — before moving back to his face.

“You’re late,” she said eventually. 

Her voice was cracked and dry as paper from lack of use. Was this the first thing she’d said in days, Cassian wondered? He wouldn’t be surprised. Mas had never indicated that Nesta had spoken to her and she certainly hadn’t spoken to him. Even at the beginning of her withdrawal, when he had sat beside her bed and told her about his day — about the goings on in the camp in the hope that she had felt less alone — Nesta had never uttered a word. 

Laying back on the couch, Cassian tried for a sly smile but it only came out as a grimace as his back barked in protest. Mother Above, he was getting old. He may be immortal, but his body had started to ache in ways it never had, especially since the war.

“You noticed my absence, how unusual,” he parried. 

Swiping a hand over his tired face, Cassian quickly folded in a wing: in his fatigue, he had nearly knocked a mug clean off the coffee table. It clattered and rocked but thankfully remained upright — Cassian couldn’t think of anything worse than having to mop up tea and cracked earthenware when all he wanted to do was listen to the slow thump of his tired heart.

Exhaustion had caved in on him since he had landed and it made his blood sluggishly slow. When had he last slept for more than a couple of hours? Maybe Mor was right, he did need the sleep. But coming home to find Nesta up and awake was enough to know he’d made the right decision, even if the weather had left him battered and bruised.

Risking a sideways glance at Nesta, he eyed her too thin frame underneath the heaps of blankets. It _was_ unusual that she had noticed him. In the week or so they had been living together, this was the first time he had seen her so alert. And the way she was staring at him with those shrewd eyes the colour of stormy skies; it made him wonder if she’d expected to find him in one piece… or for him to come back at all.

Did she expect everyone to leave her?

Chasing away the thought, he bared his teeth in a wide grin, even as his skin prickled from the scrutiny. 

“Did you miss me, sweetheart? If I realised leaving would have made you look at me like that I would have disappeared long ago.”

Something shuttered behind her eyes then, like a bulb being turned off at the switched. He had pushed too far, too soon. 

Fair enough.

Closing her book with a snap, Nesta said, “Mas didn’t come today.”

“It’s a Tuesday,” he explained. “It’s her day off.” 

_Even if it was only to go to her other job._

Nesta shook her head, her expression hardening. “Something felt wrong.”

Cassian sat up at that. He had always taken her previous premonitions seriously and no matter how much she rallied against him and drove him away, he knew that when she sensed something _she had sensed something._

“Wrong how?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Nesta said testily, mistaking his clipped words for irritation. “It just didn’t feel right.”

“I’ll check on her first thing tomorrow morning,” he promised. 

Standing up with a grunt, he paused as the room momentarily spun and his body swayed slightly on the spot. 

Mother Above he needed to eat. He’d expelled a lot of energy during the flight home and he hadn’t consumed anything before he’d left — he’d been too anxious to come home and make sure she was ok. But the mere thought of getting up at dawn to oversee the girls training… he needed his bed more than he wanted dinner. Even the thought of reheating leftovers seemed too much.

So he said roughly — tiredly, “I need to go to sleep. See you tomorrow.”

And although Nesta didn’t bid him goodnight, he could have sworn her brow furrowed slightly as she watched him leave.


	4. Splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta finally leaves the house with Cassian as they go to check on Mas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a long time to get this chapter right - I really wanted to do it justice. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments and kudos! I couldn't believe how many I got for this chapter and knowing you're all enjoying it - and that you think my writing is actually ok - made me feel all warm and fuzzy :)
> 
> Let me know what you think!

** Chapter Four  
Nesta **

Nesta stared at her reflection in the wall mirror and smoothed her hands over the material of her new dress. It was long-sleeved and made of a thick, grey wool that was surprisingly soft beneath her fingertips. Tapering at the waist, the dress fell into a long, pleated skirt which stopped three-quarters of the way down her calves. The wool was lined with an impossibly soft fleece, and underneath her skirts she also wore fleece-lined leggings and supple leather boots. Nesta had never worn something so short: in the human realms, it was unseemly for a woman to expose her legs, but Nesta supposed she should stop caring about those sorts of expectations now. Even if she did still feel human at heart. 

It pained her to admit how much she liked all of her new clothing, and the dress was no exception. It was tasteful yet simple and Mas had tailored it perfectly; the material flattered her unique lines and shapes — a remarkable feat, given that the Illyrian must have started work on the clothing well before her arrival and had not seen how Nesta’s other drab dresses hung off her body, as if she were made of nothing but bones. 

Nesta knew that she had lost weight — too much. Yet eating had no longer seemed essential when she had the alcohol to chase the hunger away. The growling of her stomach had grounded her. It had been a form of self-punishment: for living when she had caused so much pain and hurt. It was what she deserved.

But now, as she stared back at her malnourished figure — the sharp outline of her skeleton and the bruised smudges beneath her eyes — all Nesta could see was how frail she had become. In her reflection, she envisaged her skeleton cracking under her weight, and in her ears she heard the sickening crack of brittle bones. She looked away.

The only reason Nesta had dragged herself out of bed was because of Mas. From the moment Mas had taken Nesta’s hands in her own on that first afternoon, the housekeeper had become an unexpected imprint on Nesta’s life. The gesture had been motherly and so unlike anything Nesta had been privy to in the last ten years that she had felt _something_ spear through the underlying numbness that had followed Nesta since the war.

Mas didn’t expect anything of Nesta. Cassian certainly hadn't warned the Illyrian of Nesta’s spiky personality or her alcohol addiction, that much Nesta could tell. Yet Mas didn’t bat an eyelid when Nesta retched her guts up or shook in the corner; she didn’t judge Nesta when she didn’t touch her food but downed the whisky with a trembling hand; and whilst Mas’s role as housekeeper was to look after the day-to-day running of the stone bungalow, she didn’t think it above and beyond her duty to care for an irreparable mess. 

The fact of the matter was that Mas cared blindly for Nesta, despite everything that Nesta was. Nesta knew the truth of it like it were set deep in the heart of her bones — knew the Illyrian was nothing but genuine. Nesta read it in the gentle way those rough hands placed the food tray on the bedside table throughout the afternoon; in the smooth lilt in Mas’s voice as she coaxed Nesta into taking the tumbler of amber liquid; or even as she guided Nesta to the bathroom to wash away the relentless sweat and sick that coated her skin. 

So Nesta did not attempt to summon the energy to snap or seethe when Mas fluttered into the room everyday at noon. Instead, she accepted her presence. It was better than then when Cassian came to visit her, anyway.

Perhaps it was for that reason that Nesta could tap into Mas’s emotions. Nesta couldn't control it, but sometimes she could sort through the Illyrian’s feelings just as Nesta had always been able to filter through her own. And yesterday evening, Nesta had felt hot, sharp pain that undeniably belonged to the housekeepers. It had been enough to get Nesta out of bed, even if she had only made it to the living room before her headache had her collapsing on the couch.

Then later, just as the clock struck midnight, Nesta had been hit deep in the stomach with a blast of fear and panic. She had known who it belonged to immediately: just as Mas’s emotions were laced with the memory of her scent — of roasted chestnuts and wood shavings — Cassian’s emotions were always tinted with the smell of fresh, untamed air mingled with musk and pine. Nesta hadn’t even bothered to attempt to sleep after that, and she’d found herself on the couch as far away from the log burner as possible, waiting up for someone who she usually couldn’t stand to be around. 

It was a cruel irony really, that Nesta’s powers enabled her to feel others emotions on top of her own, especially as she had spent most of her life shutting hers away. Feeling had always been too much — too intense — for her. Nesta didn’t understand how others could bear it. It was why she was now nothing but a numb and hollow mess of brittle bones — she’d rather feel nothing than something. It was why she hated Cassian so damn much; he always made her emotions roar. 

Cassian was already seated at the table, a steaming bowl in front of him, when she walked into the kitchen. His surprise to see her quickly turned predatory as his eyes slowly, slowly travelled from her feet to her face as he took in her new clothing. 

Resisting the urge to grab the nearest object and throw it at his head, Nesta focussed on calming the pink that wanted to rise to her cheeks, willing all the coldness she could into her veins.

Cassian’s eyes gleamed anyway, as if he had sensed her inner turmoil and it delighted him. 

“You’re up early,” he said.

“So are you,” she retorted, sliding stiffly into a chair.

The pain from the dull headache she had woken up with flared again and she tried to blink it away. She was too tired for their word games today. She was _always_ too tired, these days.

“Illyrian’s train from dawn,” Cassian told her, as he wordlessly poured her a smoothie from the jug on the table. His voice had dropped an octave, as if he had sensed that she were in pain. “It’s hard to lie in when you’ve been getting up at sunrise every day since a youngling.”

Not caring for his conversational anecdote, Nesta cut straight to the point. “When are you going to visit Mas?”  


To his credit, Cassian did not falter. As swift as an asp, he shot back, “Why, do you plan on coming with me?”

Nesta levelled him with a stare that dared him to deny her. “Yes.”

Cassian sat slowly back in his chair, his expression surprisingly unreadable. Surely he wasn’t going to deny her? He had ordered her to come out into the camp with him that first day. He had even used that authoritative bark of his that Nesta was sure would have most fae scrambling over themselves to do his bidding. It didn’t work on her. It never had and it never would.

The pause extended into a stretched out silence that only made Nesta more resolute.

She did not break his gaze, making sure her stare burrowed into his, digging deeper and deeper until he leaned forward again. 

Resting his elbows on the table, Cassian clasped his hands in front of him. “You can come, but you need to join me on some errands first.” Then, as if realising what the upper hand could get him, he added, “And you need to eat a proper breakfast.”

Even though her stomach churned at the thought of eating something, Nesta hissed, “Fine.”

The gloating Nesta expected to come never came. She watched Cassian head over to the stove and pour what looked like oats into an earthenware bowl. Unceremoniously, he placed the steaming bowl and a silver spoon in front of her. 

He raised his eyebrows pointedly, as if to say, _Well, go on._

Begrudgingly, Nesta put a spoonful in her mouth, even though she wanted to flick the hot oats across the table until it hit him square in the face.

Cassian settled back into the low-backed chair, seemingly satisfied. 

“Why can’t we go straight there?” Nesta grilled him.

Cassian paused from devouring his own bowl. He was eating as if he hadn’t been fed for a week and Nesta remembered how he had swayed before he bid her goodnight. How many hours had he flown in the high winds only to go straight to bed? Had she imagined his fear and panic? She had been so sure, but when he had arrived home the only thing wrong with him seemed to be extreme fatigue.

“What I need to do is on the way,” Cassian remarked off-handedly. 

It took everything in Nesta to refrain from hissing in annoyance. Instead, she looked for an insult to throw at him. Her eyes landed on the open book in front of him. That would do.

“I didn’t realise Illyrian’s could read,” she said loftily.

An obvious lie, given that she had examined the collection of books lining the shelves in the living room.

Cassian didn’t even bother to look up.

“Most Illyrian bastards can’t,” he replied shortly. “Rhys’s mother was kind enough to teach Azriel and I.”

Any power Nesta had felt vanished in a wisp and the subsequent silence fell over them like a shroud. 

Slowly, Nesta continued to eat and when she set down her spoon — surprising herself to find her bowl empty — Cassian immediately cleared the table.

Clearly, her words had struck deep. For some reason, she didn’t feel satisfaction at the tense set of his broad shoulders or the way that he placed everything in the sink with an unnecessary clatter.

He turned back to her, his expression tight, those hazel eyes darker than they had been moments before.

“Let’s go,” he said roughly.

* * *

It might have been freezing outside but at least the sun was already bright when they stepped out of the bungalow. Windhaven was covered in a light smattering of fresh snow and the white blanket sparkled in the sunshine. On either side of the camp, the craggy mountains rose up above the snow-capped pine trees to meet the blue sky, which was already dotted with Illyrians as they flew about their business.

Straight ahead of them, Nesta could make out the sparring rings on the jutting plateau that overhung the mountain pass. Even from here, the clang of steel rang sharp and the short grunts of males fighting carried on the wind so swiftly it felt like they were right beside her. The sounds made her tense and she swallowed thickly, pushing down the noise of battle that started to hiss in her ears — of screaming men and the sound of steel hacking flesh. 

Biting down hard on the inside of her cheek, Nesta used the pain to ground her, not caring when she tasted the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. 

The sounds in her head dulled to a whisper.

Pointing half-way up the steep mountain pass to the left — where Nesta guessed the wide clearing did little to shield the battered looking tents from the harsh wind — Cassian said, “Mas lives up there. Do you want to walk or fly?”

“I thought you had an errand?”

Cassian dipped his head in a nod. “I do. It’s at the far edge of the camp, next to the cliff face. We can fly or walk — it’s your choice.”

Nesta surveyed the jagged mountain wall. Despite the snow, she could just make out a path indented in the rock. It was about three-foot wide and ran in a long, steep zig-zag up the mountain, finally giving way to another rock face that jutted out like a tall, roughly hewn tombstone. 

The climb looked brutal, but the punishment it promised her body was enough to have Nesta saying, “Walk.”

As if he knew what she had been thinking, Cassian’s mouth formed a tight line, but he started walking without a word. He set a brutal pace, and even though her bones felt like lead, she urged her body to keep up with him. She’d be damned if she let him know that she was struggling.

Thighs burning, Nesta followed Cassian as they wound their way past tents of varying size, some more ramshackle than others. Snow had given way to a slushy mud, which caked her boots all the way to her ankles, and she suddenly understood why her skirts hung half way down her calves: it was for the sheer practicality of living in these conditions.

Illyrian females with downcast eyes hurried past them or sat outside tents, huddled over large iron pots that sat on heavy rocks, no doubt to prevent the fire encased between them from going out. 

Cassian was a towering presence and Illyrian’s looked up warily as they passed, as if they could sense him coming a mile off. Cassian nodded tightly in acknowledgement, especially the females Nesta noticed, sometimes saying what she assumed was good morning in Illyrian — _Kamusta —_ and ruffling the hair of curly haired children with miniature wings.

Yet, whereas in Velaris fae smiled and stopped to chat to Cassian, the Illyrian’s greetings were never warm. The most he got was a few nodded acknowledgements before the females averted their eyes to the ground. Some of the males openly glared at him, but Cassian appeared unfazed; as if their dislike for him was something he expected. 

The further they progressed through the camp, the more Nesta’s nerves continued to fray. Every crackle and pop of the camp fires came louder than the last, and although she tried her best not to react, she found her insides flinching at every sound as her instincts told her to _run, run, run._

They approached yet another tent, and although the fire was trapped between the rocks, Nesta could have sworn the flames licked their forked tongues high into the air as the wood spat and hissed. Behind her, a metal spoon clanged against a cast-iron pot and Nesta jumped out of her skin. To her left, a child screamed. All around her, the wind howled and howled and howled in distress.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. One moment Nesta could breathe fine and then she couldn’t. Fire smoke clawed at her windpipe, the smell of cooking choking her as it caught in her throat. She faltered in her step as she begged her body to suck in rattling breath after rattling breath, and although she willed her limbs to follow Cassian’s broad back, it was as if her body was suddenly disconnected from her brain. Cruel and bloody images flashed before her eyes and her stomach lurched, the sensation pounding and rising all the way up her sternum and into her mouth like a beating heart.

The world spun as everything became too loud, too bright and too — another fire spat and Nesta felt that ice wall around her emotions start to crack. 

Screaming and the snap of bones rushed into her ears. 

Another crack.

She needed to get away. She needed quiet. She needed —

Worry wrenched through her. The sensation twisted and wrung its way down through her ribs and into her stomach so fast that Nesta clutched her hands to her middle — _her hands_ which were now encased with ghostly tendrils that started at her fingertips and, began to spread up her wrists, her arms… 

Nesta managed a whimper of warning but Cassian had already turned sharply; as if he had sensed something was very wrong. Those hazel eyes of his blew wide as her knees buckled, and despite the distance between them, he caught her just before she hit the ground. Strong arms circled around her, as Cassian held her dead weight against him. His eyes were full of concern — a mirror of the worry that had surged through her moments before — as he pulled back to survey her. She watched his lips move, but all Nesta could hear was the thundering in her ears as a mace smashed against that wall protecting her emotions and everything shattered.

Shards of ice flew everywhere with a force akin to a firing cannon, loud enough to blast through the screaming in her head. She watched Cassian cry out in surprise as he turned his face away from her, shielding himself from the fragments. Red flared around them —encasing them — but Nesta didn’t see it. All she saw was the smoke that had crept up to her shoulders and threatened to wind its way around her neck, down her throat…

Cassian’s mouth moved again, his lips forming her name, but all she heard was the sound of his screams as the King of Hybern snapped his wings. And then she was screaming too. Even though Nesta couldn’t hear it she felt her lungs burn and burn and burn. Desperately, she tried to curl in on herself — to press her hands over her horrible ears, because she couldn’t bear to relive the pain in his cries.

And then Cassian was helping her, those firm hands gathering her to his chest. One arm slid under her knees and then they shot into the sky, as fast as an arrow unleashed from a taut bow. The cold wind eddied around them, the icy gust like a slap to the face as it pushed them up until they were above everything and everyone, and that screaming was replaced by the relentless roar of the wind and nothing else.

Slowly, slowly, the world righted and steadied as Cassian suspended them in midair, those strong, healed wings of his beating steadily.

Windhaven spread out beneath them; the tents and sparring rings no more than small specks on the landscape. And around them there was nothing but wide, open space — endless blue sky and the peaks of snow-capped mountains. 

“Breathe.” 

A low and authoritative order rumbled in Nesta’s ears. Unwittingly, she obeyed. Her lungs rattled at her first breath but the cold air felt like medicine, soothing her insides.

“Again,” Cassian ordered, but he needn’t have bothered. She was gulping it down now, lungfuls of clean, untainted air. And that ghostly mist that had threatened to consume her receded with every intake of breath, creeping back down her arms and into her fingertips, until the final wisps vanished into nothing.

Without thinking, Nesta buried those fingers into the neck of Cassian’s leathers; as if the action might keep that power from resurfacing. Cassian’s arms tightened around her in response, bringing her closer to his body until his chin dropped to the top of her head.

“Was that the first time?” 

His question was muffled by her hair. When he moved his face away from her, she felt cold. Cassian stared down at her; his eyes laced with an emotion Nesta was unable to dissect. It wasn’t pity or anger — it was something else. Something foreign.

“ _Nesta_ ,” he implored hoarsely.

Unable to speak, she turned her head away from him, but she knew her silence said everything: _No._

“Did the alcohol keep it at bay?” Cassian demanded this time. 

More silence. 

Nesta focussed on patching up that emotional wall, sealing the cracks and replacing the shattered blocks of ice. She slid a last brick into place. It wasn’t as strong before. It was battered and bruised with irreparable holes, just like her. It wasn’t as formidable. 

A distressed noise emitted from the back of Cassian’s throat. “Please talk to me, Nesta. Let me help you. _Please._ ”

He started to fly again, bringing them back to the ground behind the stone house — granting them the privacy from peering eyes. No doubt she had caused enough of a scene that the camp would soon be alight with whisperings of the High Fae who had lost control. 

Carefully, Cassian set her down. Before she could move away, his hand flew out to grip her arm.

Outrage rushed through her, but as she finally looked at him — really looked — she did a double take. 

All over his face were small, thin cuts. They were scattered across his cheeks and chin and nose. On his forehead; a deep, cruel gash was already congealed with dried blood that had run into the dark hairs of his eyebrow. The wounds were already healing, but… she had done that with her blast of ice. She had lost control and she had hurt him.

How many others had she hurt? What about the females and — Mother Above — the _children?_

The thought had her wrenching free of his grasp. She stepped back quickly and focussed all of her remaining energy on not letting her face crumple.

Nesta wrapped her arms tightly around herself — an extra layer of protection — even though it was her that was the danger. 

“I told you to stay away.” 

Nesta had intended her voice to come out flat but it cracked. She watched Cassian fist his hands at his sides. He looked as if he were contemplating reaching for her again and was using all of his restraint to hold himself back. 

He clearly lost his internal battle as his fingers snagged on hers. His skin was unbelievably warm against her pale, blood-leeched fingers. Fire against ice. 

“ _I can’t_ stay away. You know that I can’t.” 

His voice was broken too. 

_I can’t_. The words she had said to him that day when she had tried to haul him up and away from the King of Hybern. 

“Please leave me alone.” 

It was the closest Nesta had come to begging since the war but she needed him to understand. She needed him to stay away.

“What? So you can drink yourself into oblivion and let your power control you?” Cassian said sharply. He grabbed for her other hand. “You’re fucking better than that. You know you’re better than that. You’re so strong, Nesta. Gods, you’re the strongest female i’ve ever met.”

The words clanged through her, as sharp as steel on steel. But they were all wrong.

“You know _nothing_ about me,” she snapped, but the malice she had tried to summon flickered and died.

Exhaustion pressed down on her chest, so heavy she felt as if someone had punched her.

“I’m so tired,” she admitted, because her body felt light and far away; as if she were floating above herself and looking down. She felt as if she might faint. 

The fire in Cassian’s eyes gave way to a softened expression. He was still holding her hands. 

“I know, sweetheart. Can I get you inside?”

He was asking permission — because he knew she couldn’t walk the distance and she couldn’t form the words.

She nodded, the tiredness so overwhelming her chin barely moved. But he caught it, like he always did.

Nesta remembered the warmth of him and the smell of his leathers as he gathered her into his arms, and then everything went quiet.


	5. Organorum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian starts to understand Nesta's demons and makes a trip to the widow's camp to check up on Mas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for all of the amazing comments and kudos. You guys are honestly all so lovely. I hope you like this next chapter. 
> 
> Chapter Six is already written and ready to be posted next week, too!

** Chapter Five  
** **Cassian**  


Cassian had put a shivering Nesta to bed, piling blankets upon blankets on top of her to warm her up. Her skin had been so pale it had taken on a blueish hue, and he had watched her as she slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hour, unable to leave. She had murmured when she fell under that final time; an incomprehensible string of words falling from her lips that were only silenced when he clasped her hand, as if his warmth soothed whatever images haunted her. He didn’t let go, after that. 

Nesta had been lucid enough to tell him what he suspected after the incident; as she begged _no, no, no_ when he started to pile the logs onto the hearth — she was scared of fire. And if her full-blown flashbacks in the camp were anything to go by, Nesta was suffering from an extreme case of suppressed battle fatigue. It was no wonder that she had hidden herself from her sisters… from them all. Her power rose to her fear and if he hadn’t flung up a shield… Well, he didn’t want to contemplate the bodies that he may have had to place on the pyre. 

Battle fatigue — or _organorum_ as it was called in Illyrian — was an unfortunate side effect of war that plagued fae and human alike. It was less of a problem for Illyrian’s, where the fighting instinct was so strong that warriors flung themselves back into battle with a stubbornness that defied usual fae, but that didn’t mean it wasn't a problem. 

Even a year later, Cassian’s nightmares were proof enough that he himself was still reeling from the war, so there was no excuse for his failure to contemplate the full extent of Nesta’s suffering. Cassian had sat in the armchair by her bed, watching Nesta’s too-still body under the heaps of blankets as he spiralled further and further into a pit of self-loathing at the failure of he, his friends and his family for letting it all get this far. 

Although Nesta was skilled at hiding her monsters, they should have pushed — they should have done _more_ — to understand the root of her icy coldness. Nesta had spent a lifetime honing her skill at masking her emotions and protecting herself at all costs, that none of them had even stopped to think that her behaviour may have been to protect _them_ rather than simply push them away. 

But today that impenetrable wall had come down, and in its wake that wild power of hers had risen to the surface. Cassian had felt her unleashed terror before he’d even heard her whimper, and then before he’d had time to dissect what was happening, that ice from within her had exploded with such force he’d had to test his own power as he threw up a shield to protect the females, the children…

Cassian had known about the bathtub. Feyre had mentioned it to him prior to Nesta’s arrival in Illyria, and he had installed the spout above the bath because of it, but he had never contemplated the gravity of the other battles she might be facing. 

After the war with Hybern, he had been so angry at her for sending him away and so broken himself as he informed family after family that their loved ones wouldn’t be coming home, that emotion had clouded logic. He’d been too distracted by Nesta’s destructive behaviour to look that bit deeper — to see past the excessive drinking and the sleazy males she used to warm her bed.

Because Cassian had felt everything in that moment when she’d lain over his broken body, as if there were a bridge between their souls. It had been overwhelming — the pain, the anguish, the heartbreak she felt — he could hardly bare the unfiltered rawness of it. And in that moment he understood why Nesta was the way she was, because that mask of indifference was the only thing protecting her from the harshness of the world.

By the time his leg and wings were mended, that bridge felt constricted. Rather than fluid it was stiff and muffled, as if he were wading under water. He had seen enough to know it was still there. Snippets of her life as her walls failed, like today, when all he could feel was pure terror at her magic as it swirled around her, readying itself to strike. 

He had heard every one of his bones snap and his agonised screams. He had seen her father’s dead eyes as his body crumpled to the floor, and Elain’s blood-coated hands as she pulled Truth-Teller out of the King of Hybern’s neck…

But even though Nesta had pushed him cruelly away, he still wanted her. Cassian had never been so angry at someone in his entire life — had never thought anyone more barbed and merciless when they wished to be — yet there was also a part of him that understood her. She was fire and ice with the sharp and assessing intelligence of a warrior. He had witnessed first-hand as Nesta read a room in seconds and used it to her advantage with that silver tongue of hers. 

In all honesty, he had never ever, been more magnetised by someone in his five hundred years of living, and he knew that nobody else would ever come close. 

So Cassian had waited until Nesta’s breathing became even before he had left the house. He was desperate for fresh air, to get lost in the monotonous rhythm of feet on mud so he could play their conversations over and over in his mind. He looped them on repeat and when he really started to look, they began to make sense. Because Nesta couldn’t voice her demons like others could. No, instead she had left him clues. He just hadn’t been clever enough to see it and to ask for an explanation why.

Stop _following me._ Stop _trying to haul me into your happy little circle._ Stop doing all of it.

_I told you to stay away._

_You know_ nothing _about me_.

_I don’t like fires.  
_ _You’ll soon change your mind living here.  
_ _I won’t._

It was all so obvious now. When Cassian cast his mind back to Solstice, Nesta had left the town house after he had added more wood to the fire. She had even deliberately chosen the armchair furthest away form the hearth, even though he knew it wasn’t her favourite spot. At the time, Cassian had thought it because she didn’t want to sit with all of them, but now… Had she left because the sound had become too much? To think he had berated her for not talking to him, when she had probably spent the entire evening trying to ignore the crackling fire and hold herself together.

Dragging a hand over his face, Cassian cast a look around. He had already found the closest messenger and sent word to Rhys, letting him know that he needed to speak with his brother face-to-face. He had also visited the spot of the incident, checking in on the females and children to make sure they weren’t hurt. He had been certain his protective shield had contained the explosion but he had wanted to double check. Now, he found himself in the craftsman centre of the camp. In front of him stood the small wooden building of Emerie’s clothing shop, the glass of the large lead windows shining brilliantly in the sun. 

Emerie was standing with her back straight and her chin held high — a perfect rendition of Nesta’s _I Will Slay My Enemies_ pose — as he entered the shop, the bell above the door heralding his arrival. Her sharp eyes flickered in recognition as he closed the door behind him, but she only dropped her chin in acknowledgement. The action was defiant yet subservient and so unusual for an Illyrian female that respect flared within him.

“Emerie,” Cassian said, trying to instil some warmth into his greeting, even if the thought of Nesta small and vulnerable back home was still making his blood run cold.

“Lord Cassian,” she replied, her voice low and modulated. “What can I help you with?”

Fingering the thick woollen scarves that hung on some hooks driven into the wall, Cassian swept an assessing eye around the shop. It was a force of habit from years of training, and a quick glance told him everything he needed to know: it was impeccably tidy and despite a few empty hangers, it looked as if she was still fighting the same losing battle when it came to customers.

“I see you have gotten more popular,” he lied, for lack of something better to say.

Emerie’s dark eyes bore into his. “The clothing shop across the street ran out of coats because of the snow storms. Some had no choice but to buy here.”

The corner of Cassian’s mouth tugged upwards at Emerie’s blunt honesty and the image she had conjured. Cassian would have paid good money to see those proud Illyrian’s faced with the dilemma of buying from a female or facing an early death from the bitter cold.

“That must have been quite the picture,” he said after a moment.

“Yes,” Emerie said slowly with a frown. “Can I help you with something?”

“I need blankets and some of these scarves,” Cassian told her, gesturing to the rack in front of him.

His words prompted Emerie into movement and she floated over to the shelf piled high with an assortment of thick, knitted blankets. “How many?”

“Twelve of each,” Cassian instructed, as he strolled over to a rack of soft earmuffs. His fingers immediately found purchase in the dappled grey fur of a headband. It was surprisingly perfect; it was wide enough to sit snugly over pointed ears, and whilst it was more fashionable than something Illyrian’s usually wore, it was ideal for muffling noise. 

Plucking it off the rack, Cassian placed it on the counter. “And this, too.”

Emerie’s eyebrows rose but she didn’t say a word as she began to ring the items up on the till.

Leaning against the counter, Cassian watched her work. When he noticed how her posture straightened uncomfortably at his attention, he tapped a large finger against the pine and cast a look around in an attempt to make her more at ease.

“I don’t suppose you can you order in some books for me, can you?” he asked suddenly, an idea blooming within him. 

Despite the unexpected question, Emerie didn’t miss a beat. Unfortunately for her, it meant her well formed responses fell to the wayside. “For Lady Nesta?” 

The subsequent, awkward pause had Cassian’s lips twitching again in amusement. 

Wings rustling uncomfortably, Emerie dared a look at him. It was a look that Cassian knew no other Illyrian female in this camp would have risked and for that, he admired her. 

Her tan cheeks were stained with the faintest red and her eyes were apologetic, as she murmured in explanation, “It’s the talk of the camp…”

“Naturally,” Cassian said, with a wave of his hand. Illyrian’s always were nosy bastards. “Nesta is a keen reader and is in need of some more books.”

Emerie started to neatly fold the different colour fabrics. Her cheeks had faded to a dusky pink. “What genre?”

“Romance usually, but she reads anything and everything. I’d stay clear of horror and war.”

Emerie should _definitely_ steer clear or war, but Cassian didn’t want to stress the importance of it. He had a feeling that Emerie didn’t need telling twice, anyway. She was as sharp as a well-honed blade, from what he had gleaned of her.

“I can look into it,” Emerie said finally, as she finished carefully placing his purchases into bags. “I won’t be able to get any in until next week.”

Cassian nodded to indicate he understood. “A small selection will do.” 

Handing her the money, he took the packaged bags. “I’ll see you next week. Send word when the books have arrived. In fact,” he put a gold coin down pointedly on the counter. “For delivery. You know where I live?”

Emerie jerked her chin upwards, her dark hair swaying at the movement.

“Until then,” Cassian said with a bow of his head.

He shot straight into the skies as soon as he was outside, forgoing the steep walk to the widow’s camp halfway up the craggy mountain. The snow was far thicker than in the mountain pass and the ice was treacherous at points. It had only been in irritation that he had suggested walking up it this morning. Nesta’s venomous comment about his inability to read had struck a deep insecurity he’d never been able to shake. So he had fought back in his own way, knowing deep in his gut that she wouldn’t take the easy way out, because he had an inkling Nesta was a stickler for self-punishment.

_That_ childish behaviour had only gotten him what he deserved: females and children nearly dead, and Nesta passed out, her skin so wan that he felt sick to his stomach.

Cassian was well in the air when he felt the familiar claw raking down the ring of fire protecting his mind. He let the fire part and his flames licked at the forthcoming darkness in greeting. It was not the sort of pitch black that was full of haunting promises, but the soothing calm that came with the midnight sky.

His brother’s voice sounded in his head only a second later. _I can be late afternoon or does it need to be sooner?_

_Late afternoon is fine._

A pause followed. Cassian rarely called Rhys to Illyria. It was only when he truly needed the power of a High Lord did he relent and ask Rhys to winnow in, so he wasn’t surprised by the next question. 

_Need I be worried?_

Cassian couldn’t hold back the tightness in his voice, as he said silently, _We had an incident this morning._

_I don’t doubt that by ‘we’ you mean yourself and the eldest Archeron sister?_

_Something like that,_ Cassian replied vaguely. He didn’t want to get into it now — not like this.

_Show me?_

It was a request not a command and one that Cassian didn’t hesitate to refuse. He shook his head — an instinctual habit even though Rhys couldn’t see him. _I’d rather not._

His brother’s reply was delayed but understanding. _I’ll winnow into the camp in a few hours. I’m in a meeting with Amren and I like my balls where they are._

Good. That left Cassian with plenty of time to check on Mas and fly them back to the house.

Making sure his brother could detect the amusement in his voice, Cassian said, _I didn’t know you had any balls._

A dark chuckle as smooth as silk sounded in his head. _Meet you at the top of the mountain?_

An immediate understanding that Cassian wanted privacy without having to ask. Sometimes having known somebody for centuries had its perks. 

_See you there.  
  
_

* * *

  
Snow crunched beneath Cassian’s heavy boots as he landed at the edge of the widow’s camp. Cassian had set himself down at the crest of the sloping path, which led up the mountain in a steady ascent to the widow’s base. Ahead of him, in the middle of the camp, Cassian could make out the towering mass of grey stone, which hunched over to create what he had always sombrely thought looked like a jagged tombstone: an omen of death waiting to claim the outcast females of the Windhaven camp.

When it came to the deep-rooted sexism in Illyrian culture, Cassian was hard done by for choosing the greatest atrocity. Yet one of the worst by far was their treatment of widows. Just a brief stock of his surroundings told Cassian everything he had expected — their numbers had grown exponentially since the war, a direct result of the Illyrian males who had not made it back.

The conditions down in the mountain pass might be harsh, but the exposure to the elements halfway up the mountain were nothing less than brutal. It was a heinous way-of-life to be relegated to the widow’s camp, but for many husbandless females, they had no choice. There was nowhere else for them to go. 

Every day at the crack of dawn when Cassian left the house, he saw the lines of females as they trudged down the perilous, convoluted path to the heart of the Windhaven camp. There, they would work themselves to the bone, just to afford the clothes on their back and to buy enough food to survive.

Despite the laws that Rhys had put into motion, widow’s found it hard to find their place amongst Illyrian society. Once a husband died, the financial strain of a childless widow was often seen as too much on the surviving family, and if their childbearing years were behind them, there was often only one place for them to go. It was rarely — if ever — out of choice to live up the mountain. It meant a hard and difficult existence at the bottom of the social ladder with no opportunity to climb.

Swallowing thickly, Cassian took in the rusting steel drums of fire and the huddled figures desperate for any sense of warmth. Females looked up in alarm as he passed, recoiling in fear of the male — of the General — who had travelled all the way up the mountain to their exiled spot.

Nodding at the weathered faces, Cassian headed towards the East side of the camp. He was unsurprised when all of the females quickly looked away from him and trained their eyes dutifully to the floor. Some of them were too preoccupied with tugging their worn clothing tighter around themselves to ward off the bitter chill, than to look at him at all. The action made Cassian wish he’d brought more blankets, but he knew if they had an inkling that he was bringing them clothing, they would never accept it. Instead, he’d been giving Mas supplies for years, leaving it to her — a respected elder amongst the widow community — to distribute the clothing to those who needed it the most.

Cassian drew up beside Mas’s tent just as she was stepping out. Her tent was less battered than the others — he had brought her a new one a few years prior as a Solstice gift — and whilst she had tutted at him, he knew it brought her comfort and protection from the elements. 

She looked alarmed when she saw him, those dark eyes widening exponentially. It was incredibly rare for him to set foot in the camp. In fact, he could count on two hands how many times he had visited. It wasn’t because he didn’t care but because of the reaction he got . Many of the females here had been abused by males at some point in their lives and so a male in the camp was a threat to their safety. And even though Cassian meant no harm, he could sense how tense the females were because of his presence.

“General Cassian… I am late?” Mas asked, even though they both knew she wasn’t expected for a few hours yet. 

“Are you — ” he started. But then he stilled, because what he saw had red, hot anger washing over him. The temperature of it was so intense it felt like waves of heat rolling across a desert plain and Mas flinched, as if she too could feel it despite the icy bite to the air. Cassian suspected the ferocity of it still had something to do with the female back at the house. He wasn't sure he'd ever get Nesta's broken expression out of his head as she begged him to stay away.

“Who did this to you?” Cassian demanded, because around Mas’ wrist was a thick bandage, and in her gait… she was limping.

He stepped quickly towards her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw females scuttle into tents, his voice clearly too male and full of rage. 

It took the restraint of a warrior to dampen his fire.

He lowered his voice. “Tell me what happened.”

Reaching up, Mas patted his cheek tenderly with her palm. She smiled sadly at him. He knew his concern caught her off guard, even after all these years. Cassian suspected it stemmed from never having anyone that truly cared for her well-being. Her poor wings were testament to that.

“Hush, sinta,” she soothed, with a last pat to his face. “I slipped over in the snow yesterday. I was climbing the mountain in the storm and sprained my wrist. Come, you are scaring the females.”

She gestured for him to follow inside the tent and he relented, if only to save the females from hiding away. 

“Will you now listen to me and move into the outhouse?” he muttered irritably, as he ducked through the canvas flap. “Then you wouldn’t have to walk up the mountain at all.” 

Mas made a tsk sound between her teeth. “And what of the other widow’s, sinta? The orphans? I can’t up and leave them, you know this.”

Grumbling at the truth of her words, Cassian attempted to straighten up. His head just barely missed a lantern hanging from the primary wooden beam that ran across the roof of the tent as it swayed in a gust of wind. He ducked again, before finding a space where he had no fear of being clobbered in the temple, and stood tall.

Mas’s tent was large in comparison to the other females. Although Mas technically had a tent to herself, she usually offered a spare bed to one of the new recruits until they could get themselves on their own two feet. 

Today was no different. In the corner, on a makeshift camp bed was a little girl who could be no older than five. She was curled up on the very corner of the thin mattress, her dark eyes watching him warily. Her little wings rustled as he took another step inside the tent, unsettled by his movement, and his heart squeezed with sadness as he watched her too-thin body shrink into itself as she tried to make herself even smaller.

Cassian took a last look at that dirty, haunted face — the face that should be innocent but was already marred by cruel reality of the world — before he worked a kind smile onto his own. “And who is this?”

“We had some orphans join us last night,” Mas explained, with an air that told him that the amount of female orphans joining the camp was far too frequent, too. “This little one is staying with me for the time being.”

Cassian bit back a grimace as he looked back at the scared youngling. Sadly, circumstances like hers was also a recurring addition to the widow’s camp. Unlike male orphans and bastards, whose use would be found in the sparring rings when they came of age, young girls who had lost their families were often taken in by the widow’s. It meant more mouths to feed and more bodies to clothe, but Mas and the other elders who had already lived unforgiving lives, took female younglings under their wings despite the financial difficulties. Unfortunately, many of the orphans had no option but to start working from a young age, often finding jobs in the kitchens or doing laundry, where they were often required to stamp and wring cloth for long durations of time until their feet and fingers blistered from the friction.

“Don’t bother to find her a job,” Cassian said immediately. “Bring her along with you every day. I’ll pay her a salary.”

Mas’ expression softened and she bowed her head gratefully. “You are too kind, General Cassian.”

Cassian nodded tightly. “It’s the least I can do. Bring her with you later so she can have a hot bath and a good meal. You know the clothing store that used to be owned by Proteus? It’s owned by his daughter Emerie now. Drop by there and pick up some clothing for her on the way. _Not_ the store opposite.” He pressed some coins into her hand. “Whilst you’re at it, get a salve for that wrist. If it’s still sore tomorrow, i’ll call the healer. ” 

He nodded to the camp bed. “Does this little one have a name?”

Mas sent him a sad smile, glancing at the small figure in the corner. “She’s not spoken yet.”

Cassian nodded in understanding. He knew what it was like to have your life uprooted and be cast out on your own from a young age. Those memories would never leave him, no matter how many wars he fought or how many Siphons he had. 

“Let me know if she needs anything else. Do you want me to fly you both down?”

Mas shook her head. “I need to check on the other girls before I leave.”

“Fine,” he replied, his thoughts already running away with him as he tried to figure out how he could help the other orphans, too. Finding them new homes would be tricky — if not near impossible — but he would try…

“General Cassian,” Mas called after him as he went to leave. “You never said why you were here.”

Cassian held up the bags of supplies in his hands. 

“I was just dropping off some warm clothing for the females,” he lied, not wanting to mention Nesta’s foresight. “Will you distribute these to the most needy?”

“Of course,” Mas said obediently, but her look was shrewd and piercing. He had already seen her gaze flit to his forehead, where the large gash was still healing. He wasn’t in the mood to tell her what had happened and he knew she wouldn’t push. No doubt she’d learn about it as soon as she reached the mountain pass, anyway. 

It was going to be the talk of the camp — if it wasn’t already.

Setting the bags down by a small chest of drawers to his right, Cassian started to head towards the tent entrance, before hesitating. Now was as good a time as any to speak to Mas about Nesta — about what he’d discovered this morning. 

Mas was already looking at him expectantly.

“Nesta is feeling unwell today and has taken to her bed,” he started slowly. “I’ve discovered she doesn’t like fire. The log burner in the living room is fine to use as long as the door is closed, but you mustn’t light a fire in her room.”

Mas’s eyes widened as she followed him out of the tent. 

“Yes, General Cassian,” she said obediently. “Of course.”

“Good,” he replied and stretched his wings out wide. “I’ll see you in a few hours, then.”


	6. Battle scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta wakes up and Cassian speaks with Rhys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter...
> 
> I am SO fuelled by your comments so please leave feedback and kudos - I love hearing what you think and how you think the story is progressing! 
> 
> The conversation between Rhys and Cassian was such a hard one to write... but please bare in mind this is a slow burn so there's no instant gratification here. I'm trying to stay true to the complexity of the characters (which is frustrating when really I just want to kick Rhys's ass to the hills...) How he treated Nesta in ACOFAS had my blood BOILING. And Feyre... she was so meek having all of the Inner Circle there to humiliate Nesta :( I never particularly liked her as a character, so that was kind of it for me... I don't know what you guys thought?

** Chapter Six  
Nesta **

Nesta looked like she was dreaming. Cassian suspected it was a peaceful dream, because for once her expression was smooth and untroubled. The sight was such a stark contrast to the Nesta he usually faced — the Nesta who was a whirlwind of steel and rage and spitting fire — that if Cassian hadn’t known deep inside his bones that it were her, he might have mistaken her for someone else. 

He’d been sitting in the armchair beside her bed for hours, and save for Mas occasionally coming in to check on him and bring him tea, he’d remained alone. He’d wiled away the hours reading _Love in Velaris,_ which it turned out, was indeed a very passionate read. Cassian had found it to be more smut than it was story, but he had ploughed through half of the book anyway, all the while contemplating how many more times he could read about the female characters ‘voluptuous breasts’ and the males ‘generous member’. 

He tried not to look over at Nesta too often. He already felt like a worried Mother Hen, but she had been so motionless since he had put her to bed that he’d sporadically given in and leant forward to check she was still alive.

Now, he listened out for her deep, even breathing and dared to check her temperature. 

She had been ice cold when he’d tucked her under the many blankets but he was happy to find that her forehead was warm beneath his palm when he rested it lightly against her skin. 

The action made her stir and he froze. It was the first time she’d moved in hours and he glanced down at her face to see if she would settle. She didn’t and Cassian watched as she rubbed her eyes against the pillow, that unlined face wrinkling as a small crease appeared between her eyebrows. 

He didn’t stop her when she raised her hands to curl her sleepy fingers around his. And when she blinked up tiredly at him — those eyes bluer than he had ever seen them — he found himself momentarily lost for words. 

The seconds it took her to make sense of him were a blissful pause, but then she let go of his hand.

“You’re awake,” he said, trying and failing to keep the relief out of his voice. 

Nesta’s frowned deepened and Cassian watched the confusion play out behind her eyes. She tried to sit up, her hands scrabbling to push off the weight of the blankets. Worried that she felt suffocated, Cassian moved to help her but he felt her irritation spike so he sat quickly back in his armchair, giving her the space to think — to try and recall what had happened. 

It was agonising to watch the confusion and frustration play out on her expression as she came up empty. Cassian knew that flashbacks were often accompanied by memory loss, as the body tried to protect itself from harm. The disorientation it brought was often so overwhelming for soldiers that they often fell deep into themselves. Cassian couldn’t bare for that to happen now. 

When Nesta tried to sit up he was there, his large hands supporting her as she fell back. 

“Easy,” he murmured unhelpfully, as if he were trying to calm a bolting horse. He stacked up some pillows behind her so she could sit up. “Try not to move too quickly. You’ve been out of it for a long while.”

Nesta ignored the kindness in his voice. He had no doubt she was still frantically trying to process how she had ended up in bed in the first place. 

“Why am I here? I don’t…” she started hoarsely, but she trailed off suddenly, as if her brain was still trying to fetch her memories. She looked at him then, those lost blue eyes boring into his. “I don’t remember…” 

Cassian searched her eyes for a moment, contemplating how he could relay what had happened without her shutting down. 

“I believe some of the sounds in the camp might have triggered what is known as battle fatigue in you when we left the camp this morning,” he started finally, his words slow and deliberate. “I think it was the campfires, but one minute you were walking behind me and the next minute you were practically on the floor, and…” He paused, hesitating for a moment, because he knew this was where he was going to lose her. “Your power made an appearance.”

The blood drained from Nesta’s face like water being sucked down a plug hole. She sunk back further into the pillows, as if she were waiting for him to snap at her for not telling her family, his friends, _him_ about the true extent of her suffering. 

The action was so unusually submissive that Cassian’s gut wrenched. She dared to stare up at him through her eyelashes and although he shot her a crooked smile, Cassian could tell from the way that she had shrunk back that she was still anticipating a verbal lashing. When nothing came, she followed his hand as he pushed a strand of hair away from his face. 

Cassian knew the exact moment that she clocked the deep gash on his forehead; where the pink line of scar tissue still looked fresh and raw. Dread clamped down on her expression, the painful realisation contorting her beautiful features. 

“I contained the explosion,” Cassian told her quickly, but his heart fell as that horrified expression was replaced by nothing. He watched that numbness sweep over her, pressing her down, down, down as she retreated into herself. 

She looked away. 

Desperate to bring her back, Cassian moved to sit on the mattress beside her. She didn’t react to their proximity — there was no hissing or recoiling from him as if she had been burned. 

This close up he could smell her sleepy skin — jasmine mingled with an underlying scent of vanilla, like the smell of old books when you flipped through the pages. 

“You’re tired and need to rest so I just want you to nod or shake your head to the questions i’m going to ask,” he said.

His words were deliberately gentle but Nesta flinched. He fought the urge to reach for her hands — to attempt to tether her to something other than that vast emptiness that wanted to consume her. 

“Nesta,” he implored softly. “I need some answers from you so this doesn’t happen again. Can you do that for me?”

Still, Nesta didn’t move. The emptiness of her gaze told him that she was already too hollow, as if someone had carved out her insides with a knife and left nothing behind.

Desperate for some sort of reaction, he closed his palm around the hand closest to him. She didn’t fight him, her arms were limp and malleable, her usual fire smothered. It was horrible to witness.

Thinking on his feet, Cassian closed his fingers around her forefinger. He rested it lightly against his palm. 

“I know you’re tired,” he said gently, “but I need to ask you some questions. You don’t need to speak. All you need to do is tap once for yes and twice for no.” 

Pressing her finger into his palm, Cassian demonstrated by tapping once and then twice. It was the only tactic he could think that might help Nesta communicate without having to _actually_ explain.

He waited patiently for a long while, giving her the time to make sense of his words as he cradled her hand.

“I know it’s hard,” he offered eventually, “but if you let me learn more, we can make sure this doesn’t happen again. Do you think you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

_There._ Something flickered behind Nesta’s eyes and her finger twitched ever so slightly against his skin. The movement felt like a blessing. 

_Yes._

“Good,” he said. Then, because he knew it would be easier for her not to see him, he added, “Close your eyes, if you like.”

Nesta obeyed immediately, her eyelids fluttering closed as if she were all to ready to shut out the world. Her eyelashes cast long, dark spikes across her chalky cheeks, highlighting the gauntness of her face. 

She looked so ill.

Cassian already knew the questions he wanted to ask. He’d had them prepared well before he got back to the house, so he didn’t hesitate, as he asked quietly, “Are there certain sights, sounds, smells and experiences that trigger bad memories for you?”

The smallest flicker of movement. _Yes._

“Is one of them the bathtub?” Another solitary movement. 

“How about fire?”

_Yes._

“Did you use alcohol to suppress your power?” 

A long pause. Cassian had just thought he’d pushed her too far when her finger moved jus once against his skin. Another yes. 

He couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath and his heart ached for her — for what they had all failed to see.

He swallowed thickly. “Does your power surface when you’re overwhelmed?”

_Yes.  
  
_ “Has something like this happened before?”

Again Nesta hesitated, and then pressed her finger ever so lightly into his palm. 

“Thank you,” Cassian said softly. He just barely kept his voice even — never had he thought that she would confide so much in him… in anyone. 

Placing their hands back on top of the blankets, he slipped his palm out from hers. Immediately, he felt cold.

Slowly, Nesta’s eyes opened but they fluttered shut again, as if she couldn’t bare to keep them open. They were painfully unseeing, and he could feel the phantom weight of her tiredness in the air around them.

Cassian rearranged her pillows so she could lie flat, and although his body ached to brush her hair from her face, he steeled himself at the last moment.

“Sleep Nesta,” he instructed instead. “You can rest now.”  
  


* * *

  
Cassian met Rhys in their usual spot. It was the mountain peak directly opposite the widow’s camp, and up this high, Windhaven was little more than a speck of black against hues of grey and green. All around them for miles stretched the clear sky — a  
canvas of violet brushed with pink, the stars diamonds amongst the colours of twilight.

Rhys was already there and drinking in the view when Cassian arrived. His wings were spread wide, as if he were trying to absorb as much of the natural scenery as possible. Cassian knew his brother loved the smell of the wind and the wildness of the Illyrian skyline as much as he did. Velaris was beautiful in its own right, but the nights sky in the city was hindered by the lights. In the vast wilderness of Illyria, the sky was pure brilliance; an untamed beauty that swept over the landscape. 

It made you feel like you could breathe properly. It made you feel free.

“You’re late,” was all Rhys said in greeting, as Cassian landed on grey, crystalline rock.

Rhys was dressed in his Illyrian leathers and from the windswept look of his brother’s hair, he guessed that Rhys had winnowed in early so he could take to the skies.

Admittedly, Cassian _was_ a few minutes late — a habit he didn’t like to keep. His military upbringing had beaten the principles of order, precision and punctuality deep into the very fibre of his being, but Nesta had seemed so very small in that large bed — he had never seen her so fragile and exposed — so it had taken him longer than it should have to leave her behind.

Her disorientation had been heartbreaking. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her confusion as she tried to scrabble through her memories; could still feel the twist of panic in her gut when she had seen the gash on his forehead. 

And the fact that she had trusted him enough to expose her well-guarded secrets… well, had shattered him. He still felt as if he had left pieces of him behind in the bungalow.

“Sorry. I got held up,” Cassian apologised.

He joined his brother at the mountain edge.

Rhys turned to face him, the slight raise of his eyebrow the only sign of surprise at the fresh, pink mark on Cassian’s forehead. 

“A new battle scar?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Cassian replied vaguely, before launching into the days events.

Rhys's expression did not change as he told him about the fire or Nesta’s terror as the ice shattered around them like an explosion on the battlefield. He explained about the flashbacks — of the war against Hybern, of the Cauldron and the King. How Cassian’s suspicions had been confirmed that she was suffering from battle fatigue; that she was petrified of the enormity of her power. Of what it could do. 

He left out what wasn’t necessary. He didn’t mention his screaming or the visions of him lying prostrate on the floor. Nor did he bring up the sound that had reverberated in his head as she relived the moment his leg and wings were broken ,or the lifeless eyes of her father after his neck had been snapped.

“She needs to train,” Rhys said simply, when Cassian had finished. “In both senses. She needs to learn combat to ease the strain of her power whilst she can’t control it, and she needs to learn how to focus her power to turn it into something useful.” 

He levelled Cassian with a frank stare. “Do you think her power is Death?”

Pondering his brother’s question, Cassian thought back to that ghostly power that had wound it’s way up Nesta’s arms. He had felt it swell, promising to do… something. The roiling energy had felt wild and desperate for a release, as if it had been waiting in the sidelines — like the string of a bow, taut and ready to fire an arrow. But no… those pale tendrils that had whorled around her hadn’t seemed like death incarnate. They had only felt like an extension of her, as if it was welded to the very fabric of her DNA.

Shaking his head, Cassian frowned. “I don’t know. I think her power is triggered by rage and pain. Nesta feels more than we do. I felt it, Rhys. I felt everything and it was…” He trailed off as his eyes shuttered at the memory. “It was like nothing i’ve ever felt before. It was like being speared through the gut, over and over.”

Rhys was silent and Cassian didn’t need to look at his brother to know that he was giving Cassian an outlet — the opportunity to explain what he had seen.  


He knew his voice was too hoarse when he said, “The alcohol — she has been self-medicating this whole time, Rhys.”

At Rhys's continued silence Cassian finally looked up. And in Rhys's eyes, he didn’t see suprise, but… understanding.

Anger bloomed inside Cassian, the heat starting in his stomach and spreading to his limbs. 

“You knew,” he snapped, unable to stop himself. “You knew what she was doing with her power and you didn’t stop it.”

“I suspected,” Rhys admitted. “You did as well.”

Cassian shook his head furiously. He would admit that he had hoped that those males were a coping mechanism, because the thought of Nesta finding pleasure in somebody that wasn’t him made him see rage so white and pure he wanted to pummel someone — anything — into the dirt. He would also admit that he had thought the alcohol was a way to help her forget, but he hadn’t known she’d been using it to suppress a power that threatened to overwhelm her whenever she was sober. He’d had no fucking idea and his brother had guessed and sat on the sidelines for over a year as she destroyed herself. 

“You should have spoken to me,” Cassian gritted out, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he tried to control his temper. “Does Feyre know?”

Rhys's eyes flashed for a second, the violet of his irises turning dark but then they calmed. 

His voice was entirely even, as he said, “You know better than anyone that you can't make someone do something. This incident needed to happen so Nesta could recognise that she has reached rock bottom. She needs to _want_ to learn how to master her power.”

Breathing hard, Cassian focussed on controlling the air as it came into his lungs. His anger parted enough for him to see sense and… Rhys was right. This had needed to happen. It had been awful to witness but any other way would have had her storming away in defiance. Or worse, emotionless and empty. 

Thank the Cauldron he had been there to contain the explosion.

“So what do you suggest?” he growled. His brother might be right about Nesta reaching rock bottom, but that didn’t mean Cassian wasn’t furious at him. And the way Rhys had sidestepped his question about Feyre… it was enough to tell Cassian that Rhys hadn’t told his mate his suspicions. 

Balling his fists at his sides, Cassian fought the temptation to fling himself at Rhys. His brother seemed to sense it; the tight set of his shoulders was enough to indicate that he was ready to brawl at a moments notice. But Cassian just remained stock still, his whole body taut with rigid, unyielding muscle. Because Cassian knew that although Rhys could overpower him with the flick of his hand, he would let Cassian pummel him into the dirt all the while his power lay low and unused. 

Rhys was a stickler for self-punishment, too. And the fact that he was tense… it meant he felt guilty. 

“I suggest you find a way to get her expelling that anger elsewhere,” Rhys said tightly. “She has unwittingly been using sex as a way to expend her power.”  


Cassian’s nostrils flared.

“Do you think she’ll train with you?”

“I don’t know,” Cassian snapped. Mother Above, he doubted it. His sigh sounded defeated, even to his own ears. “Maybe. She was in a bad way when I left. She didn’t remember this morning at all.” 

Running a hand through his hair, Cassian pulled out the leather tie. Most of it had come loose on the flight up the mountain and it was tangled and messy. “Nesta doesn’t take well to orders.”

“I’ve noticed,” Rhys said drily. 

Cassian growled. The threat reverberated in his throat instinctively but Rhys just sat down on the rocky ground and dangled his legs fearlessly over the mountain ledge. He glanced at his brother, his lips pulling up into a small smile that didn’t meet his eyes. It was an apology. He knew he’d behaved like an ass. 

“Feyre is out of her mind with worry,” Rhys said after a moment.

It didn’t surprise Cassian that Rhys had brought things back to Feyre. Cassian had never known anyone to be more in love — so much so, that his brother’s usual compassion and understanding for others completely disintegrated when it came to Nesta. The bond he and Feyre shared was so deep and so intense that Rhys was blinded by his love. His brother hadn’t had an easy life. It still hurt Cassian to think about what his brother endured Under the Mountain. He knew that he harboured many ghosts that he could never voice to his friends. But Feyre… she was his brother’s salvation, and their bond was so sacred that Rhys's need to protect his mate had meant that his grudge towards Nesta was unwavering. Whilst Feyre might be able to forgive Nesta for the way she treated her, Rhys couldn’t.

He had forgiven Elain.

Sitting beside his brother, Cassian fanned his wings out behind him. He welcomed the burn in his tendons as they stretched wide and free. 

Together, they watched an Illyrian move through the sky, a bobbing dot on patrol. 

“Feyre made a tough call,” Cassian said eventually. “ _We_ made a tough call.”

Sighing, Rhys dragged a palm over his face. His brother looked tired and from the way Rhys's shoulders were still tense, Cassian gathered the treaty negotiations were still taking up too much of his time. 

Cassian knew Rhys wanted nothing more in the world than to be alone with his mate for a week, but so far in their relationship, he and Feyre’s responsibilities had been all consuming. The court needed them, and they were both dedicated enough to starve themselves of one another for the good of their people.

“Did Mor speak to you?” Cassian asked, changing the subject to try and get the far away look out of Rhys's eyes.

It was instinctive for him to try and alleviate others pain, he’d been doing it for centuries.

“Yes,” Rhys said, his expression suddenly contemplative. “I wasn’t… How did we miss that?”

Cassian loosed a shrug. “She didn’t want us to know and we didn’t look. Does Az know?”

Rhys's expression hardened. “Mor left to speak to him after she confided to me. He hasn’t mentioned it and I haven’t brought it up.” A pause followed his words and Cassian watched Rhys stare into the distance, before he admitted, “Azriel’s shadows are darker. You’ll see him in a few days, I’ve asked him to check in for weekly reports.”

It was a silent instruction to analyse the shadowsinger himself and it was one that Cassian would make sure to follow up. He hadn’t seen Azriel since he had dropped off some of Nesta’s belongings at the bungalow on that second day. Cassian suspected Azriel was hiding, and whilst the shadowsinger was the hardest of his brother’s to read, Cassian knew the truth of it in the manner that one knows their siblings coping methods in ways that others would never have the foresight to see.

Cassian clapped a hand on Rhys's back. “You should get back to that mate of yours. It might ease some of that tension in you, brother.”

Rhys's eyes lit up at the suggestion, but he had only left after Cassian had filled him in on the camps. His report was bleak, and Cassian had watched Rhys's shoulders become even more taut as Cassian divulged everything he had observed so far.

Eventually, Rhys had stood and widened his wings ready for flight. Cassian had the feeling that Rhys was going to loop around the mountain pass a few times before winnowing back to Velaris. If he wasn’t so keen to get back to the stone house, he might have joined him.

Two white envelopes appeared in Cassian’s hands with a snap of Rhys's fingers. Another snap and a homemade basket landed on the ground beside his feet.  Cassian rose his eyebrows in question.

“From her sisters,” Rhys explained with a wave of his hand. “I think it would be optimistic of me to expect a letter back?”

Cassian thought of the envelope he had left on Nesta’s bedside table, alongside a pen and paper. They had lain there untouched for days during her recovery and then one day they had disappeared. He hadn’t dared to ask if she’d read them — or worse, if she were planning on writing back. Rhys was right, you couldn’t force someone to do something they didn’t want to do.

“It would be too optimistic to expect Nesta to write to her sisters,” Cassian admitted. “Give her time, Rhys.”

His voice was laced with plea. Neither of them had ever directly addressed the anger Rhys harboured towards Nesta — it was a dangerous subject, especially considering he and Nesta’s past. Even now, the way Rhys had forced Nesta to sit at the house before their departure sat grimly in Cassian’s mind. If he thought about it too hard, it made his blood boil. Mor had told him that Feyre had shut her end of the bond after he and Nesta had left— that she’d even closed her mind off to her mate as she had stormed off, furious at him for interfering when she’d explicitly asked him not to. The thought pleased him more than it should. It was about time Feyre kicked her mates sorry ass into place when it came to her sister. 

Cassian wrestled down the discomfort. He didn’t want to confront _that_ issue just yet, so he had only told Rhys to send Feyre his love, before he had stepped off the ledge and glided back home.


	7. An opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian shows Nesta Illyria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely reader's! Another update for you. It's a few day's late, but it's an extra long one for you! We finally get some dialogue between Nesta and Cassian... and oh how I love to write their snappy dialogue...
> 
> Please let me know what you think! It was so interesting reading your thoughts on the last chapter (and stupid Rhys being stupid, stupid, stupid). 
> 
> NB: In my head, stupid is replaced with a far ruder word...

** Chapter Seven  
Nesta **

Days passed after the incident and Nesta kept to herself. She flitted between feeling completely numb to feeling everything, the latter sensation so staggering that she often found herself burying her head between her knees, her palms pressing into her ears as that power itched beneath her skin, threatening to pounce. 

Nesta longed for a drink to make the pain go away at the same time that she didn’t. In just a week, her withdrawal headaches had finally subsided, and when she looked in the mirror she was surprised to see that her skin was less wan and translucent, her lips less chapped. 

The biggest change was her appetite. When she wasn't feeling numb, hunger hit her in full force, and although she tried to contain it from Cassian, she wanted to eat anything and _everything_ when her emotions became too loud. On those days, Nesta would cave and consume all of the food Mas brought in for her at midday — much to the housekeeper’s delight. It was that feeling that had Nesta going back for seconds, the sensation of someone else’s pleasure lining her stomach a nice change from the doom that usually held fast to her insides, its sharp claws tearing her insides bloody. 

Between the numbness and the raging emotions, Nesta had still remembered to check that Mas was ok. Whilst Cassian had assured her that the housekeeper was fine — that she had fallen in the snow but had seen the apothecary and was well on the mend — seeing Mas in the flesh had been the only way to put Nesta’s mind at ease.

Cassian sought out Nesta morning and evening. He was a quiet and steady presence for someone that was usually so loud. He never pressed her to talk and usually seated himself in the armchair by her bed. At the beginning, his appearances would flood her with a rage so intense she fought the urge to throw something at his head, but Cassian had paid her frustration no heed. He would usually drink from one of the earthenware mugs — green tea with lemon — and look over some papers. Sometimes he would read a book. She had sneaked a peak at the title when the urge became too much — _Illyrian War Strategy: The Silent Killing Power of Siphons in Battle —_ and had held back a snort. _Of course_ the Illyrian brute was reading about war strategy in his spare time — how cliché. 

For the most part, Cassian was out of the house often and for long periods of time. When he wasn’t there, she would venture into the living room and look over the other books on the shelves flanking the fireplace. Running her fingers over the hard spines, Nesta had eventually paused on a honey brown cover the colour of Cassian’s eyes, the gold foil lettering on the spine shining in the faelight:  _Heroicis: Gods and Goddesses of Illyria._ There was something about it that had called to her, so she had pulled the poetry book off the shelf and started to flip through it. The pages were as thin as tissue paper and Nesta had to turn them carefully to make sure they didn’t rip. The left-hand side of the book was printed in Illyrian and Nesta had tried to make sense of the words with a frown, until she realised that the translation was on the parallel page.

Not having the enthusiasm to read, Nesta had placed it on top of her already dwindling book stack. She had nearly finished the last of the books that Azriel had dropped off from her apartment, plus the paperback that she had found in her own room. Despite Cassian’s offhanded comment that Love in Velaris must have been Mor’s, Nesta had a feeling that it had been bought with her in mind. The spine had no creases in it and the pages smelt clean, as if it had come straight off the press rather than sitting on a bookshelf for the past century. The thought of the General of the Night Court browsing through the romance section of a bookshop made her feel immensely uncomfortable at the same time that she wanted to howl. If she didn’t hate Feyre so much, she’d ask her sister to paint it and give it to Cassian as a birthday present… Not that she knew when his birthday even was. She had a feeling his friends would never let him live it down.

Three long weeks had passed since Nesta arrived and she was starting to get cabin fever. Since her arrival she had left the house only once - an unmitigated disaster - and she’d predominantly stuck to her room since then. It was all starting to become suffocating; the four walls felt like a prison, and even reading, something that was usually her favourite pastime was becoming dull and relentless. So one morning Nesta rose with the sun without thinking. She washed and put on one of her new Illyrian dresses in a royal blue; sat at the dressing table and wove her hair into her usual coronet, all the while trying to ignore the jolt of hatred at the sight of her pointed ears, before she had walked straight into the kitchen, her back straight and ready for battle.

To Cassian’s credit, he didn’t let shock win over his expression as she sat down for breakfast. Instead, he placed a mug of chai tea in front of her.

“Porridge?”

Not waiting for an answer, Cassian slid a steaming bowl in front of her.

Nesta frowned, her nose crinkling as she stared down at the cocoa coloured oats. The smell of sugar wafted into her nose. 

She snapped her gaze to his in disbelief. “Is that… chocolate?”

“Chocolate is my weak spot,” Cassian admitted with a grimace. Nesta watched him ladle some porridge into his own bowl. “It’s been five centuries and I can’t kick the habit.” 

He sat down opposite her and grinned. The smile bloomed across his tan face — a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day — and his already wind-kissed hair tumbled around his shoulders as he tucked in his chair. 

Picking up a spoon, Cassian tapped the air with it, as if it were an extension of a pointed finger. “And then I realised, why should I even try to give something up that tastes so damn _good_?”

Fighting the amusement that wanted to wrestle its way onto her face, Nesta made her voice cool. She barely won. 

“How childlike,” was all she said, but Cassian merely shrugged. 

He continued to smile at her around a mouthful of oats, utterly unperturbed by her coldness, and those eyes of his eyes twinkled cheekily. The sight made her a bit breathless — his irises were near gold today, brought out by the deep purple of his tunic. In Velaris, Nesta had only ever seen Cassian wear black, but since their arrival to Illyria he often opted for a range of different colours around the house, usually a dark forest green or a deep purple that reminded her of pine trees and the night sky. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate, Nesta Archeron. I might have to evict you from the house,” Cassian teased. His smile faltered then, as if he realised he had laid himself a trap that Nesta could take full advantage of if she wanted.

Nesta refrained from rolling her eyes. It was so easy it wasn’t worth bothering with.

“Of course I like chocolate,” she retorted brusquely, surprising even herself that she hadn’t opted to go down that thorny path. “I’m not a heathen.”

Cassian didn’t comment. He only leant back in his chair with a languid stretch of his wings and continued to watch her eat with an infuriatingly smug look on his face. When she finished — quicker than she liked to admit — he said, “I always keep a supply of chocolate in the pantry. Help yourself whenever you like.”

* * *

Cassian had left shortly after breakfast, to do… whatever he did in the camps. Nesta had never bothered to enquire and she didn’t care to find out anytime soon.

At one point over the table, Cassian had looked as if he was going to ask her to come with him. She could feel the words poised on the tip of his tongue, ready to burst forth, but he had eventually closed his mouth and disappeared, obviously thinking better of it. She couldn’t entirely blame him. Who would want to spend the day with her, anyway?

_Heroicis: Gods and Goddesses of Illyria_ had surprised Nesta when she had finally opened the front cover. She had thought Illyrian’s black and white — brutish and cold — but the poetry was breathtakingly beautiful. She had ended up sitting perched on the edge of the couch, devouring every word as she turned page after page. There was a movement to the poetry beyond the story, as true as the steady beat of her heart. The words sung to her, the images vivid in her mind as if it were her who had experienced them. 

The epic was a story of battle; of Gods and Goddesses wielding their powers alongside the Illyrian’s in a fight against the demon Vanth. 

  
_Red blood blossoms,_  
_diyosa and diyos,_  
_side by side,  
_ _breath by breath,  
_ _heart by heart._

_They cut down sheaths of wheat,  
_ _a curved arc,  
_ _a flash of steel,  
_ _a tangled dance;  
_ _as siphons gleam in unison,  
_ _blasting Vanth to ash._

  
Utterly consumed by the book, Nesta didn’t see Mas enter the living room hauling a basket of firewood at her feet, until she was right in front of her. 

Cassian was following close behind, a look of sheer indignation on his face. His hair was windswept and his frame larger than life as he plucked the heavy basket from Mas as if it were made of feathers. 

“I thought I told you not to carry the firewood? You can leave the stacked baskets by the door and i’ll bring them in,” he scolded the housekeeper.

Mas merely shrugged, a guilty smile on her lips, which only broadened as she spotted Nesta fully dressed and out of her room.

“The dress is ok, anak?” 

Before Nesta could open her mouth to reply, the petite Illyrian had pulled Nesta to her feet with those small, dry hands of hers. Nesta had been so taken aback that she allowed Mas to sweep a critical eye over the dress, her hands smoothing the fabric at the sleeves and shaking out the bottom to straighten the hem. Mas tutted and muttered as she worked, her wings rustling. Like Cassian’s, Mas's wings seemed to be an extension of her expression. Nesta had watched Cassian close enough out of the corner of her eye to know that his wings rustled in agitation; flared in anger; spread languidly when he was relaxed; and tucked in tight when he was tense.

As she was examined, Nesta remained stiff. Nobody usually dared to touch her so boldly,and Mas’s failure to tread around Nesta as if she were walking on eggshells caught her off-guard. 

Sensing Nesta’s unease, Cassian rose an amused eyebrow. She fought back the urge to hiss at him.

“A perfect fit,” Mas announced finally, looking between the two — as if she had sensed their silent exchange. “Much warmer than that flimsy Velarian clothing, huh?”

Mas’s wings flared again, as if the mere thought regarding the quality of Velarian clothing made her lose sleep at night. This time she kept them outstretched so she could soak in the warmth from the log burner at her back. The firelight illuminated the membrane, and Nesta’s gaze snagged at the same time as something twisted deep inside of her. Because Mas’s wings were scarred to an extent that Nesta had never witnessed on anyone before. Where her wings should have been a reddish brown, they were a mass of scar tissue, rendering her wings in cuts and patches of white, pink and red. And where one of her claws should be… nothing. Only a hump of jagged scar tissue, as if it had been ripped straight from her.

Nesta felt herself go cold and hot all at once. She had seen the scars both Cassian and Azriel wore on their wings — the marks of battle —but they were _nothing_ in comparison to the mess of Mas’ wings. And whilst Cassian had patches of smooth, regrown skin thanks to the healer, Mas had nothing. As if she had been denied help. As if she wasn’t worthy of it.

Oblivious to Nesta’s staring, Mas said, “I can alter the dress for you whenever you like, diyosa.”

That ominous power moved inside of Nesta and she swallowed her rising panic. 

She tired her gaze away from Mas’s ruined wings and back into the Illyrian’s hazel eyes.

“It fits fine,” she said hoarsely.

Eyes softening, Mas peered up into Nesta’s face. She patted Nesta’s cheek as she had to Cassian that first day when she had arrived in Illyria. The gesture was openly affectionate, like a mother proudly confessing her love. Not even Nesta’s mother had done that. Not that Nesta could remember, anyway.

“I will alter the dress once I have fattened you up,” Mas confessed happily. And as if the words had triggered her into action, she headed back to the kitchen with the promise of a big lunch.

Nesta watched her disappear, her throat tight. A movement in the corner of her eye had her turning.

Cassian held out her coat, as if he sensed she needed to get out. 

The look he gave her was gentle and discerning. “Do you want to see Illyria?”

* * *

They left via the backdoor, Cassian’s ruby siphons gleaming in the sunlight that had poked its grey arms through the even greyer clouds. Although the snow had stopped falling the evening before, the entirety of Windhaven was a blanket of white, and the air was sharp enough that Cassian only stretched his wings once before tucking them back in tight. 

“Why are Mas’s wings like that?” Nesta blurted, as soon as the door closed behind them. 

“Later,” Cassian said brusquely. He handed her a wide headband, the dappled grey fur unbelievably soft against her fingers. “Put this on.”

Nesta was so taken back by the gesture that she automatically switched to the defensive. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Cassian’s jaw clenched and unclenched. Whenever they were together, he flitted between doing that and that infuriating smile that made her blood boil. “Why? Do you not like it, Nesta?”

She loved it, actually. She wanted to rub the fur against her cheek, to feel the softness against her skin… but she didn’t know how to confess that. To admit she liked it would be to give him a little slice of her — an insight into what made her tick — and she had learnt the hard way that just one crack in the armour exposed a weakness. She couldn’t afford to be weak. So she just stared at it, unblinking, until Cassian snatched it from her.

Despite the rough grab, Cassian’s hands were gentle as he pulled it over her head, moving the material so it sat snug over her pointed ears.

“It fits,” he announced sarcastically, as if he were a prince successfully fitting a glass slipper. His voice was stifled by the fur. “Can you hear me?”

Her scathing look had that jaw tensing again.

“I thought it might muffle any unwanted sounds,” he explained offhandedly. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back.”

He reached up, making to remove the headband but she slapped his arm away. Her hand smacked the leather. The sound was harsher than the actual impact.

“Get off of me, you insufferable bat,” she snapped. 

Throwing his head back, Cassian laughed as if her poisonous words delighted him, and before she could protest, his arms were around her and they were in the air. 

The cold stung her cheeks enough to burn as the world rushed past them, but then she felt Cassian slip that invisible shield over them, his siphons flaring red, and the wind disappeared, leaving only the smell of fresh air in its wake. 

Resolutely _not_ looking down, Nesta concentrated on breathing in the open space as they levelled with the tops of the snowy peaks and then banked left. She hadn't liked flying with Rhys or Azriel, and she didn’t think she’d _ever_ like descending, but there was a smoothness to Cassian’s flight as he tracked through the sky, his wings strong and steady. It reminded her of riding her mare before they had lost everything. The steady beat of Cassian’s wings was similar to the pounding of hooves on dry, compact earth; the sprinting wind and scenery like the freedom of a bracing gallop. 

Nesta had missed riding the most after her mother had died.

After half an hour or so, Nesta dared a glance down at the maze of mountains below them. They spread out as far as the eye could see, the barren rocks jutting up before falling back down in ragged, uneven lines. Her grip tightened around Cassian’s neck reflexively, her nails biting into his leathers. It was a long way down.

“I’ll try not to drop you,” Cassian teased. 

His voice was quiet thanks to the covering over her ears, but she still felt the deep rumble of it in his chest.

Nesta’s frown was cold and her voice distant, as she replied, “I’d hope not, given your years of training.”

“There’s always a first time,” he quipped, and when Nesta finally craned her neck to look up at him, he flashed his teeth at her in a wide grin.  


“You wouldn't dare,” she retorted simply. 

Nesta turned back to the scenery. Looking into Cassian’s eyes felt too intimate when they were this close, especially when she could feel the warmth of him as he hovered over her. 

It made her want to run. It made her want to escape. 

To their left, the craggy mountains had given way to a rolling forest that ran for miles and miles. Nesta focussed on the scenery, marvelling at how quickly grey became snow-crusted evergreen, the tops of the tall trees like pointed green hats, and even up as high as they were, the air became laced with the distant smell of fresh pine. The scent calmed her somewhat, pushing her panic back down to the sidelines, even though she could sense how ancient and dark the woodland was. Briefly, Nesta wondered what prowled amongst the trees. Nothing good, she suspected.

Cassian’s voice rumbling in her ear pulled on her attention. 

“No, I wouldn’t dare to drop you,” he admitted thoughtfully, as if he had actually been contemplating what she would do to him whilst she had been purposefully observing the view. Then, as if noticing her concentration was not truly on him, he nodded to their left, “That forest there is The Steppes, and right ahead is the sacred mountain —”

“— Ramiel. Yes, I know.” 

Cassian’s beat of surprised silence was like a balm.

“I’ve run out of my own books,” she supplied drily in explanation, after the beat turned into a prolonged pause. “There’s also a map of Illyria on the wall in the living room, in case you had forgotten.”

Nesta waited for Cassian to make a sly remark about her failure to leave her bedroom, but it didn't come.

“Any other facts or snippets of knowledge you have up your sleeve, sweetheart?”

That term of endearment had her hackles rising, because their conversation was turning too casual for them. Her heart picked up at an alarming speed, as that panic rose like a cresting wave. She couldn’t let herself do normal with Cassian. She couldn’t. 

So she bit out, “You don’t read anything for pleasure.”

She knew she’d set up her own trap when he barked a laugh. His voice was low and sultry, as he said, “I prefer to find my pleasure in other ways.”

Her body locked up before she could stop it, her instincts working faster than her brain. She knew of course, about Cassian’s reputation for bedding females. It had been insinuated many times around the dinner table by those moronic idiots he called friends, and she had witnessed first-hand the way that females fawned over him when he was in Velaris. Everyone loved Cassian. The children shrieked with delight whenever he landed in the street, and Nesta hadn’t been able to pass an Illyrian warrior after the battlefield at Hybern that hadn’t been singing his praises. It didn’t help when he looked like he did either: his dark, rugged features; his tan skin; his ridiculously chiselled body... the fact that he towered over everyone, even the other Illyrian’s; and… Nesta had never met anyone that looked that good and was also so well loved. 

It irritated the hell out of her. Nesta knew she was beautiful — she’d been told again and again from a young age. But her good looks were not like Elain’s. Nesta’s beauty was intimidating and unapproachable; her demeanour cold and cutting. She was a rose: devastating and thorny.

Nobody had ever loved Nesta like they loved Cassian. The thought stung. 

It made her more irate… more motivated to hurt.

“So I’ve heard,” she said icily, and then with as much venom as she could muster, she asked, “Is there anyone in Prythian that you haven’t tried to fuck?”

A huffed laugh of mock amusement reached her ears, but she knew without turning her face up to Cassian’s that his expression was hard and… maybe even angry. 

“You can’t beg innocence on that front, sweetheart . Were those males better or worse than your own hand?”

Angry. He was definitely angry. It usually took far more for Cassian to rise to her bait. Between them, the air had gone taut, and her chest felt tight in anticipation of the barbed words she was ready to fling at him, because the bastard _knew_ what would rile her above all else. She shouldn’t have to defend her lifestyle choice to anyone, not when those hypocrites had probably fucked their way across the continent. 

“You tell me,” she snapped, that power rising inside her as she truly digested his words.For once she didn’t push it back down. Her rage had kindled slowly but now it was fierce and _burning_ inside of her. She wanted to wound him… to make him suffer on the level that she suffered. To make him understand how if she let it, _everything_ hurt. Every breath, every word, every movement. “If I remember correctly, you were perched outside on the roof more often than not.”

She’d pushed him too far. She knew before the feral snarl ripped out of him. He banked hard to the left and she knew what he was going to do before he did it.

“ _Do not_ ,” she hissed, but Cassian ignored her, diving towards the ground so fast the landscape became a blur. That protective shield disappeared as if in punishment, and the wind ripped at her hair so fiercely it came free from the pins, long brown strands whipping her face.

They landed abruptly, the forest floor flying around them with such force she felt pine needles and stones scrape against her face amidst the snow. Her teeth clacked together with the impact but she ignored the pain, pushing him away from her with such force he stepped backwards. 

“You are a hateful hypocrite,” she spat, as her stomach continued to swoop — it had not yet caught up with her body. 

She slammed her palms into his muscled chest again, but this time Cassian had been expecting the contact, his legs already braced in a warrior stance. A fresh wave of fury rose up in her when he barely moved an inch.

“I’m hateful?” Cassian’s thunderous laugh was awful. It hit her deep in the stomach, her gut wrenching with a pain so forceful she wanted to double over. “You are the most stubborn female i’ve ever met. You are fucking and drinking your life away and I will not stand for it.”

“You. Do. Not. Own. Me.” Each word was accompanied by a jabbed finger into that sculpted, heaving chest. His pupils dilated, the brown obscured by obsidian and if Nesta had any sense she’d run. But she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Cassian said quietly. Dangerously. He glanced down to the siphons on the backs of his hands. They were glowing — a light in the shade of the towering trees. “Were those males better or worse than your own hand?”

Worse. They had been worse and he knew that. She bet he knew how empty she felt afterwards; how her release of silver sparks was always chased by that numbness that gripped her like a vice. 

Nesta cursed at him, the filth spewing out her mouth as that power roiled inside of her, rising and rising… She felt that ghostly mist at her fingertips; it vibrated with a boundless energy up her arms, down her chest, to her legs… It crept into the cracks in that damaged ice wall, the splinters cracking like lightning fracturing the sky. 

Cassian’s eyes flashed at the sight of her power, as if he were starving for it.

“Go on then, sweetheart. Have a go at me,” he threatened, his voice rumbling through her chest. His siphons throbbed, the red stones thrumming with energy, like blood moving through veins. “I dare you.”

And for once, Nesta didn’t shy away from that power. She let those emotions she usually avoided at all costs rush through the holes in that frozen wall. Like a dam breaking, she pointed her palms at him just as everything hit her in full force. Pain and sadness pounded in her blood, channeling itself from every pore of her being to her hands. She felt it all — the loneliness, resentment and frustration — as her temper reached its pinnacle. She roared with the agony of it all, welcoming that surge that crested inside of her. 

She had been holding it back for too long…

Fire shot out of Nesta’s palms with such force she was thrown backwards. She saw Cassian react quick enough to throw up a shield. She watched her blaze connect with the red emblazoned metal with a bang, the sound so loud the trees shook. And she watched her power burn through the metal as if it were nothing but water and hit Cassian square in the chest. 

She hit the ground so hard the breath was knocked out of her. Her hands had flown up as she had been thrown backwards, that stream of silver light rushing from her palms and crackling into the sky, her power flowing up, up, up… before sputtering out like a fire extinguished with a jet of water, utterly spent.

Gasping for air, Nesta ignored the pain lancing through her left arm and clutched at her head. Her skull was pounding from the beating it had taken when it connected with the compact earth, but Nesta didn’t care. She scrabbled to her feet, the horror of what she had done rising like bile in her throat as she stood, swaying. 

Steadying herself on a tree trunk, Nesta scanned the blurry scenery until she spotted a dark shape splayed on the ground.

_Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods._

_“Cassian.”_

Her voice was hoarse as she tore across the forest floor. Falling to her knees in the snow, Nesta grappled at Cassian’s leathers, horrified to see the burnt hole over his heart and the tattered fabric of his tunic. Trembling, she ran her hands up to his neck, pressing her fingers into his warm skin until she felt the flutter of his pulse. 

“ _Cassian_ ,” she begged again, shaking him desperately. “Open your eyes, you brute. I didn’t mean —”

Cassian’s chest heaved with a gravelly gasp that sounded like music to her ears. Relief washed over her, the sensation warm, and Nesta watched Cassian take a few more shuddering breaths, before he pushed her off of him. 

He rolled to the side with a groan. 

“Were you trying to say that you didn’t mean to decimate me?” he finished with a wheeze. “Because you did a pretty good job, sweetheart.”

The following spluttering cough echoed around the empty forest, and Nesta watched him spit crimson across the snow-crusted pine needles.

“ _Fucking hell,_ that’s quite the punch you had packed in there,” he groaned, but his breathing had started to sound less like he was taking his last dying breath.

Shaking with relief, Nesta slumped onto her back beside him, not caring about the cold wet snow seeping into her leathers. For a moment they lay side by side, Cassian’s ragged gasps a symphony to her own heaving chest. Even above the sound, Nesta could hear Cassian’s heart beating alongside hers, the thrum of it loud in her ears as she stared at the green canopy overhead — the sliver of blue sky peeking through the pine needles.

Eventually, Nesta turned her head to look at him. Cassian was still on his side but he was looking straight at her, his dark eyes studying her with an intensity that made her want to disappear.

“How do you feel?” he asked hoarsely.

Nesta stared at him in disbelief. She had thrown him back twenty feet with a blast of power that had burnt through _metal_ and _magic,_ and he was asking if she was ok. The wheels in her mind started to turn, ready to fire back a witty response, but her eyes snagged on his exposed chest through the hole in his leathers, and the words died in her mouth. 

“I feel lighter,” she admitted begrudgingly. “Is that… normal?”

Clutching his stomach, Cassian moaned as he eased himself upright. “You’ve been pushing down your power for over a year. I’d say lighter is a good sign. If you’d have kept it in any longer you could have gone mad.”

Nesta scrambled to her feet as Cassian stood. He clutched the trunk of the nearest tree as if it were a lifeline. It would have been amusing if her heart wasn’t beating so fast and her mind wasn’t working a million times per minute.

“Fucking hell,” he swore again, bending over to catch his breath. “I feel like i’ve been hit by a cannon ball.”

But Nesta was still processing what he had just said and she paid his words no heed. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean _mad_?”

Cassian swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, studying the blood that came away with it. He shook his hand and drops of scarlet sprayed onto the forest floor.

“Rhys is the most powerful High Lord in the whole of Prythian’s history, and even he can’t keep his power holed up forever. He has to ease the strain of his magic on little things.”

Nesta thought back to the balmy temperature at The House of Wind despite the snow-capped mountains, and the occasions where her sister’s mate had clicked his fingers and magicked something out of thin air. She had always thought Rhys was just showing off.

As if Cassian knew what she was thinking, he snorted. “Oh Rhys likes to peacock as much as the average Illyrian, but he also does it to ease the tension. It kills two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

Nesta sneer was one of agreement. Just the thought of Rhys had her hackles raised. He hated her and she didn’t like him — a mutual dislike that she had no inclination to change. She was used to people hating her. What was one more person?

Cassian went on, “Being gifted with power is only the first step for fae. Mastering it and learning to control it is the second. Unfortunately, that’s always the hardest part.”

Raising her chin, Nesta levelled her gaze with his. “I wasn’t gifted anything. I took it and I want to give it back.”

But she knew as she said it that it wasn’t possible. She had gauged and tore at the inky blackness when she had been forced into the Cauldron. She had carved out a piece of that ancient power for herself, and she had expended it at Hybern trying to save everyone. And in its wake lay another power — similar in so many ways, but different — as if it had morphed into another shape and woven itself into the very fabric of her being. 

Nesta continued to look him straight in the eye, fighting the tiredness that was pressing down on her. “I don’t want it.”

It was the most honest thing she had ever said to him and he seemed to sense it. His face softened, those sharp warrior features moulding into something almost tender. 

“I had to have seven siphons, Nesta. Most Illyrian’s have _one_. When my power was first let loose, I felled an entire clearing in the Steppes. Azriel did the same.”

She raised her chin in defiance. 

“I don’t want it,” she repeated.

“I know,” Cassian said softly, “but it’s a part of you now. You could use it for good.”

“It’s not good,” Nesta bit out, “it’s dangerous.”

Cassian looked contemplative. “Perhaps.”

“What do you mean, _perhaps_?” she snapped. 

Had the stupid bat hit his head too hard when she had blasted him backwards?

Cassian merely gestured to the bare, untouched skin of his chest. “I mean you melted a hole through my shield and my leathers but stopped before you burned my skin. A surprise really,” he added lightly, “considering that I thought I’d pushed you too far.”

Nesta floated back a few steps, her spine stiffening as the realisation kicked in. Her fists curled at her sides, as she said through gritted teeth, “You goaded me on purpose.”

Cassian folded his arms across his chest, his stance defensive.

“I made the most of an opportunity,” he said carefully.

“That’s just a conceited way of saying that you provoked me on purpose,” she snapped, her eyes blazing with indignation. But Cassian did not balk. He never had, not when it came to her. 

“You didn’t know what would happen,” she insisted.

“No,” he admitted. He took a small step towards her. “Your power is fuelled by rage. You need to find a way to channel out that anger, otherwise this —“ Cassian gestured to his chest, “will become a regular occurrence.”

Swallowing hard, Nesta bunched her fists at her sides. She stared at the bark of the tree he had been leaning against, studying the grain. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she admitted eventually. 

It felt odd to confess out loud what she had been trying to avoid for over a year. She hadcut all of her ties and had tried in vein to ignore that menacing power that wanted to consume everything in its path, but it hadn’t worked in the end. 

“If you learn how to vent your anger properly you can make sure you never accidentally hurt anyone again.” Cassian took another step towards her, his bloody fingers lifting her chin. Their eyes met; steel grey on molten brown. “I promise you, Nesta”

Another vow. 

They’d been here before.

Cassian seemed to know what she was thinking, his grip tightening ever so slightly so she couldn’t look away, “I swear to you Nesta, that if you train with me, you’ll be able to pummel the next asshole who dares touch you into the ground. What do you say?”

Her throat clamped shut, locking words deep inside of her. They stared at one another for a long time — the scent of him enveloping her so thoroughly that she felt like she were in a trance. 

Blindly, her fingers snagged on his hand. She watched his eyes widen in surprise at the contact so at odds with her offence minutes earlier, but she could never voice what she needed to say, and she was too tired to fight it. Because she didn’t have any other option. Her power was alive and breathing and she couldn’t control it.

So Nesta just pressed a finger into his palm — just once — as she had done all those days ago when she couldn’t find her voice to answer his questions.

_Yes._


	8. Defence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta and Cassian train. Azriel comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your lovely comments! Things finally start to get a bit more interesting and from now on, you can expect a lot of dialogue between Nesta & Cassian. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos keep me writing and are much appreciated :)

** Chapter Eight  
Cassian **

“Get up.”

The ball-shaped bundle in the middle of the bed didn’t move and Cassian resisted giving it a good shake.

Despite the lack of movement, the tangle of golden-brown hair that was draped across the pillow told him that somewhere, Nesta Archeron was buried deep beneath the blankets. She had been like that since yesterday afternoon and if Cassian weren’t able to hear the steady, reassuring thump of her heartbeat in his ears, he’d be worried that she’d stopped breathing altogether.

Walking purposefully to the large window in her bedroom, Cassian tugged open the heavy curtains so the soft, grey light of morning flooded across the mattress. 

Finally, the blankets rustled. 

Striding back to the bed, Cassian folded his arms firmly across his chest just as Nesta emerged beneath the blankets. She blinked up at him drowsily, trying to make sense of the present that was a far cry from the comforting darkness that came with being unconscious. The movement was laboured, her eyelids still heavy with the weight of sleep.

Cassian waited for Nesta to grumble at him, but she merely shielded her face with a bare arm to block out the light. It struck him as an oddly vulnerable and normal thing for her to do. More often than not, it was hard to remember that Nesta was just fae, but when her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bleary from sleep, she looked less sharp. She was softer — less other. 

“What do you want?” 

Cassian’s stomach dropped at the lifeless way in which she spoke. It was at such odds to the fire that had raged in her yesterday — the fire that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since. He had tossed and turned in bed all night, reliving the moment that her roaring power had erupted from her palms and knocked him clean off his feet. 

He had been so furious at the words and insinuations she had hurled his way — to discover that she had _known_ about those times he’d perched on the rooftops to make sure she got home safe. What she couldn’t possibly have known is how much it had killed him to track her back to her apartment with another male in tow. Even now, the knowledge that she had fucked her way through the worst Velaris had to offer whilst he pined and raged for her alone, made him full of such undiluted rage he wanted to pummel anything and everything until his anger quieted.

But then Nesta had pleaded with him to open his eyes and those barbed accusations had bled away until there was nothing left but that rope of memory tying them together.

Nesta had gone straight to bed when they had got back from The Steppes. He had carried her back across the skies, feeling how her body grew limp and exhausted with every flap of his wings, as if her power had depleted her of energy.

Cassian hadn’t heard a peep from her since. He had busied himself around the camp, supervising the aerial legions drills for the rest of the day and then training until he was bloodied and blue, but his mind kept going back to the way her hands had scrabbled at his leathers and the touch of her warm fingers on his pulse.

It had been midnight when he’d finally caved and checked up on her. Nesta had been an immovable heap under the piles of blankets and from the looks of things, she’d barely moved since then. 

Cassian was well aware of the toll expending your power had on your body. He had run on empty more times then he could count, so he was all too familiar with the bone-shattering exhaustion that pulled your body down once the adrenaline sputtered out. Given how long Nesta had been holding in her power, it was no surprise that she had slept for eighteen hours straight. 

Even now, as Nesta rubbed her bloodshot eyes with her fists, she looked drained. She was still beautiful — Nesta had never failed to take his breath away — but the unhealthy purple bruises below her eyes pained him. He wanted her to heal more than anything, but they still had a long, long way to go.

Expelling his thoughts, Cassian cocked his head at her. “We’re training this morning. Don’t tell me you have already forgotten our bargain?”

“What time is it.” 

It was a demand not a question and far more like the Nesta he knew.

Cassian shot her a slow, cocksure grin — it was a grin armed to drive away the numbness that he could sense inside of her. “Time to train.”

“Get. Out.” 

Her delivery was more vicious than any knife and Cassian’s blood hummed pleasurably through his veins in response.

Mother Above, he was such a masochistic bastard when it came to her.

Gesturing to the lllyrian leathers he had draped over the back of the armchair, Cassian ordered, “Put these on and join me for breakfast.”

Slowly, Nesta cast an eye over the leathers and then back at him. He was already dressed for combat. He rarely wore anything else when he was in Illyria, where he spent his days either sparring or training himself. 

Nesta hissed at him when he remained staring down at her. It took him a moment to realise she was waiting for him to leave so she could dress.

She looked so irate he wanted to laugh. Instead, he prodded at that anger… as if he were poking a fire-breathing dragon with a stick for fun. 

“By all means, don’t mind me,” he drawled, purposefully letting his eyes rove over her bare arms… the short, white sleeves of her nightgown and the dipped hemline. “I can just sit —“

“Get out, you perverted bat,” she snapped, sitting up in bed with surprising speed for someone that was still riddled with sleep.

His nostrils flared in delight at her rage and she growled in frustration, those stormy eyes flashing with anger — no doubt at her inability to wound him.

Cassian laughed. It was a true laugh — not a fake laugh to irritate her — which became louder and more delighted when she growled in frustration, her stormy eyes flashing angrily at her inability to wound him. 

Cauldron, she was actually a goddess. He was so royally fucked, it was insane. 

Cassian stayed to see her snarl in fury before backing out of the room, his hands up. 

He continued to laugh all the way to the kitchen.

* * *

Despite the curses that Cassian heard coming from her bedroom, Nesta did join him for breakfast ten minutes later. 

Her narrowed eyes dared him to say anything as she slid into her usual seat at the table, and even though his heart had stopped dead at the sight of her dressed head-to-toe in Illyrian leathers, he didn’t utter a word.

Instead, he slid a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her and tucked into his own. He had been at the sparring ring since dawn overseeing the girls training and he was ravenous. 

There had been only been nine girls today, and Cassian had been pissed to discover that they were still learning the same basic sword attack that they had been trying to master the week before. Cassian had hissed at every wrong move that went uncorrected by Devlon until he had lost his shit and stepped in himself. 

Devlon had gone so red in the face, Cassian had hoped he might explode.

It had been the only satisfaction Cassian had got out of the whole hour and a half, and after laying into Devlon he had left vowing to be there every morning from now on. If he was lucky, the girls could be learning counter-attacks by next week. 

_If_ he was lucky. He wouldn’t hold his breath.

Looking up from his empty plate, Cassian found Nesta staring at him, the slightest of frowns showing in the small crease between her eyebrows. He cocked an eyebrow at her and the faintest pink stained her cheeks. He couldn’t help the slow grin that spread across his face.

Oh, he was going to have fun with her this morning.

“Like what you see?” he jested. 

Nesta looked him up and down, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “You eat like a starved dog.”

“Some of us have been up since dawn,” Cassian replied lightly, picking up their empty plates and putting them in the sink. “Let’s get going.”

He grabbed the headband he had bought her from the hook by the front door and tossed it to her on the way out. She caught it with surprise but pulled it over her pointed ears without protesting. The headband might not be traditional sparring attire, but Cassian wasn’t taking any risks. The camp was in full swing by now, the clash of steel and everyday activities rising above the wind. There were sure to be campfires. He didn’t fancy a repeat of their last outing in the camp.

“You have two options,” Cassian told Nesta as they stepped outside, “we can walk through the camp to one of the lesser used sparring rings or I can fly you up there to train.” 

Cassian pointed to the top of the mountain where he had met Rhys the other day.

Cassian watched the options tick over in Nesta’s mind. He knew she saw them for what they were: an option to walk through the noises of the camp and attempt to face those triggers, or fly away from them. 

He knew before she opened her mouth what she had decided. He tried not to feel disappointed. 

“Fly.”

Cassian had already got more than he had possibly dreamed of. Never in his wildest dreams had he envisaged Nesta in head-to-toe leathers ready to train with him, so rather than trying to persuade her to venture into the camps, he just mocked a bow. 

“As you wish, m’lady,” he said, and flew her to the top of the mountain without another word.

Nesta’s eyes went wide at the panorama as soon as they set down on the summit. The unusually clear sky meant that they had an unhindered view of the rocky, snow-streaked terrain as it melded with the rolling lush green of the forests. Only a few cirrus clouds brushed over the azure sky, their streaks like strands of hair caught in the wind. It was a beautiful day, even if it was cold enough to freeze his balls off.

Leaving Nesta to admire the scenery, Cassian flared his siphons to melt the surrounding snow so they could train safely — he’d be damned if she slipped or fell on the ice too soon and decided this wasn’t for her. He needed her to like the training, more than he’d ever wanted anybody to like anything before. Cassian wasn’t stupid, he didn’t expect Nesta to become a kick-ass Illyrian warrior but he did want her to learn how to protect herself, even if it was just the basics. And he wanted her to find a way to relieve the crushing tension of her power as it built in her veins. He had failed her in so many ways, and if he could do this… perhaps he could do one good thing for her. 

Flashing his siphons again, Cassian used his magic to summon a weapons rack. When he turned back to Nesta, she was still staring out at the wild landscape, unperturbed by the steep drop and the fierce wind which howled around them. 

She was close enough to the edge that he started to worry, but then she looked over at him as he threw up a shield. The air went still and quiet around them — it ensured that their voices wouldn’t get lost on the wind as soon as they opened their mouths. 

“This is one of my favourite views,” Cassian commented after a while. “Rhys, Az and I used to come here all the time when we were growing up.”

Nesta’s nod was the only indication that she had heard him. He watched her survey the weapons rack behind him. He saw her gaze slide over the longsword, the mace, the staff… until it snagged on a collection of daggers. 

Her flash of fear struck him as fierce as any lightning strike, and in his minds eye, Cassian saw Nesta turning Truth-Teller into the King of Hybern’s neck… twisting and twisting the blade until that head rolled on the floor… his blood running all over her slim hands and up her arms.

Cassian vanished the daggers into thin air with a flare of ruby.

Nesta blinked at him, surprise etched on her face. He just sent her a crooked grin that he knew would set her on edge — anything to distract her from that tenebrous memory.

He folded his arms across his chest. “Have you punched before, sweetheart?” 

Her surprise and fear vanished and in its place… irritation. _Good._

“I was raised to look pretty so I could be auctioned off to the highest bidder,” Nesta said icily, that wall slamming down on him and shutting him out. “What do you think?” 

A no then. 

Surveying Nesta’s stiff and uncompromising posture, Cassian wondered how anybody could have been so cruel as to try and crush her fire and steel until she was nothing but a submissive, defenceless female. How her emotions must have raged when she was a child, as she was forced to suppress her intelligence and susceptibility to feel _everything._ He wanted to roar at the injustice of it all… at her dead parents who had raised their daughter to be subservient in the world when she could have conquered it. 

“You’ll be surprised to hear that as a volatile Illyrian I have a temper,” Cassian said conversationally, as if her previous words had held no bite. 

There was a slight quirk of a perfectly shaped eyebrow, but no taunting affirmation from the female in front of him.

“Training helps me channel that energy into something productive. It makes me strong and powerful and keeps all of those bastards in line.” He jerked his head to the mountain pass below. “Do you remember the self-defence moves I taught you?”

A dangerous topic bringing up Hybern, but Cassian couldn’t help but push her to see how she would react. To his surprise that hollow look in her eyes only slid across her vision for the briefest of moments. 

She dipped her chin once. 

“Show me,” he commanded. 

Nesta stared at him contemplatively before taking off the fur headband and throwing it to the side. He dropped into a balanced stance and beckoned her with his hands.

And just like that, she moved. The speed with which she came towards him was incredible for an underfed, untrained warrior. He caught her wrist inches from his face and pressed his fingers hard into the fragile bones there. She hissed at him but didn’t move an inch, her palm still cupped upwards, ready to strike the tail end of his nose. The end of her fingertips crackled briefly with white-hot energy before spluttering out, but she did not back away.

“Good,” he said, ignoring the spark of her power and the way his blood sung at the smell of her — of sleep and leather, of defiance and resolve. “That can break a nose. Better still, strike side to side.” He curled her palm into a fist and showed her where to aim for with the side of her hand. “Ok, again.”

They spent half an hour working their way through the basic moves. Nesta remained silent throughout but Cassian knew she was listening. He could almost hear the tick of her mind as she catalogued everything he said, tucking it into the forefront of her memory for later use. It was a sign of a true warrior — to assess and examine, to strategise and perfect — and he could just picture her in a sparring ring, covered in dirt and sweat and determination. A vengeful, mighty queen.

Cassian hesitated when he got to the last of the self-defence moves. A slow, cruel smirk tugged at the corners of Nesta’s lips. It was the first hint of a smile that he had seen in over a year, even if it was malicious in intent. It did funny things to his insides. 

“I know how to do _that,”_ she said slyly.

Slowly her eyes flitted down to his crotch before inching back to meet his.

Cassian opened his mouth as his brain scrambled to form a witty response but he shut it again as he came up empty. Nesta’s eyes _gleamed_ , like a cat’s eyes shining in the dark, and Cassian didn’t recall the memory of the breathless pain as her knee connected between his legs, but Nesta’s chin as it tilted upwards…

Unable to help himself, his eyes darted to the pale column of her neck. Wisps of hair had come out of her braid and clung to her skin. All he wanted was to graze his nose against the dip in her collarbone and trace her skin all the way up to the shell of her ear…

Burying the groan that wanted to rumble from his chest, Cassian snapped his gaze back to hers. Her lips were still turned up at the corners and those lifeless eyes glinted triumphant in the sunlight. 

Mother Above, someone save him.

“I remember,” he confessed after a few beats, and to stop him doing something unspeakably foolish like pulling her to him, he turned on his heel and stalked towards the weapons rack.

Cassian grabbed for the boxing wraps and sparring pads. 

“I’m going to teach you how to punch,” he told her over his shoulder, quickly falling into the role of General to stop him thinking about what her skin would taste like. “It’s a great way to vent your anger and with the correct technique, you can disable or stall an opponent. It also gives you another method of disabling your enemy rather than a knee in the balls.”

Taking her hands in turn, Cassian ignored the spark that flared in him at the contact. He looped the elastic hooks over her thumbs and methodically wound the material around her wrists, her palms, her thumbs and the locks of her fingers. 

“These will protect your hands from the stresses of punching,” he informed her as he worked, fastening the last of the material around her wrists. “Ok, stand to the side with your feet shoulder width apart,” he instructed, naturally stepping into the stance so she could copy him. He nodded when he was satisfied. “Now, which is your writing hand?” 

Nesta held up her left and he closed her palm into a fist again. “This is your strongest hand, it starts at your cheek. Your other hand goes in the lead. Elbows tucked in, that’s it. Ok, bend your knees slightly. Good.”

He held up his clenched fist.

“Never tuck your fingers around your thumb. You want to strike with this knuckle.” Cassian tapped the knuckle of his middle finger. “Ninety percent of your impact should come from here. If you put all the force behind your fourth or little finger you’re going to break some bones.” He picked up the sparring pads by his feet. “Right, let’s get going.”

Cassian had Nesta complete a vigorous round of punching until she was panting, her lungs unused to the strain, before he let her stop for a break.

“Good,” he praised. “We’ll rest for a few minutes and then we start again. Water?”

Nesta brushed the stray hairs that had fallen across her face with her arm and nodded. Cassian tapped his siphons, magicking a pitcher of water and two glasses. He handed her one and he watched her knock it back.

“Ok?” he asked, trying to coax a response from her. She had been utterly mute since her comment earlier and it was starting to unnerve him. 

Nesta just nodded and held her glass out for more water. He watched her drink again, slower this time. He tracked the column of her throat as she swallowed.

“You’re not bad,” he said, talking through the silence. “You have potential.”

And he wasn’t lying. Much like her power, he had been pleased to discover that those small hands packed a punch when she connected properly.

Nesta raised a perfect eyebrow at him as if to say, _Obviously._ Cassian laughed and took her empty glass. 

“Let’s go again.”  
  


* * *

  
After five rounds of punching, Cassian knew that Nesta could be exceptional at hand-to-hand combat. That kernel of knowledge thrilled him — the thought of that fire and steel being forged into something mighty and vengeful completely intoxicating. 

The more she sparred the stricter he got. He critiqued every wrong movement, every slight misstep because she could do better. He introduced her to the right and left hook, working them into a sequence with a knee strike that left her breath ragged and her chest heaving.

“Slow down,” he instructed, as she punched too fast. “Don’t let it get sloppy. You can pack a punch with a neat and quick jab. If you throw all your weight behind it without controlling your core you risk becoming unbalanced. Pivot that foot on those hooks. That’s it.”

Eventually, Nesta set back on her feet, panting. She was sweating hard and he watched a droplet spill from her hairline into her eyebrow. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and then reset her stance, but he shook his head. He could tell she was spent, her arms were trembling from the repeated exertion and she was still to weak for him to push her further.

The fact that Nesta had gone on for as long as she had was credit to that iron willpower of hers that refused to let her admit defeat. Although her appetite was up, Nesta was still seriously underweight. Her cheeks were too hollow, her collarbone too sharp and her hip bones too obvious through the tight fighting leathers. Her body was worn from running on empty and the bruised smudges beneath her eyes were the tell-tale signs that her body was begging for better care.

“Let’s call it,” Cassian said, putting the pads back on the weapons rack. He poured Nesta more water and then sat down by the cliff edge with his own glass.

It was a moment before she joined him, her back stiff as she sat a few feet away from him. She started to unwrap her hands, the material flapping in the slight breeze he had let through his shields to cool her down.

“Well, did you hate it?” he asked finally, leaning back on a hand.

Nesta’s steel-blue eyes met his. “Hate what?”

He gestured to her hands and the wrap which she continued to unspool from her palm.

Nesta looked out at the sky, following an Illyrian as he tracked his way across the vast blue — a warrior on patrol. “No.”

“We can train tomorrow, if you’re not too sore.”

She would be sore. Cassian would have to give her a salve to relax her muscles when they got back to the house, otherwise she’d find it hard to roll out of bed tomorrow. A long soak would be good, too. Although Cassian wasn’t sure whether she could even sit in the tub for a prolonged period of time. He made a mental note to try and find out without being too obvious.

“You know where to find me,” Nesta responded, with a casual sort of bitterness that was unlike her. She was usually more cutting.

The comment hurt more than he expected it to. It wasn’t her most venomous insult but the words squeezed uncomfortably around his ribcage. It lifted the satisfaction that he thought he was making headway. Nesta may not be drinking until she was nothing but numb or fucking every male in sight, but the matter of fact still stood like an impenetrable fortress: she didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be here with him.

“If you’re bored, sweetheart, I can get you doing some drudgery around the camp,” he drawled, but Nesta didn’t seem to be listening. Her eyes were on the mountain ledge opposite — the widow’s camp.

“What happened to Mas’s wings?” 

It was a blunt question that he was not expecting and one that he had already avoided answering once — there were prying ears and eyes all over that damn camp. But now they were alone he didn’t have the luxury of palming her off.

Cassian looked down into his glass, at the water as it caught the light. He hated talking about what Mas had suffered. It made him want to shed more blood. 

“Mas was from the camp where I was born,” he told Nesta. “It was a brutal place — worse than here. You can’t imagine how the males treated the female there… like they were worthless. And her husband was no exception. He beat her every day of their marriage. Her wings had been cut you see, so she couldn’t fly away.”

Nesta’s expression clouded over, like a shadow creeping across the ground at the first sign of dusk. He wondered if she was thinking of the male that had tried to harm her. If she was contemplating what being chained to an abusive husband would have meant for her. 

“Mas and I met a few hundred years ago,” Cassian continued. “When I learned where she was from and what had happened to her, I gave her a job so she would never be harmed again.”

“What do you mean by cut?” Nesta asked bluntly, her voice fiercely quiet as she cut into his pause.

Cassian sighed. “Illyrian’s are proud and snobby creatures. We live to fight and fly and kill. Males start training as younglings and we are raised to know nothing else. For us, the clash of steel on steel is music, the thrum of battle pounds in our veins as relentless as war drums. It is what makes us who we are and without it, we are nothing. We are lower than lesser fae in the eyes of everyone outside of Illyria and so Illyrian’s pride breeding exceptional warriors over anything else. So when a female has her first bleeding it’s a symbol of their ability to breed. Humans reproduce easily, but fae do not. It can take females years to become impregnated and to make sure that they do, males cut females wings to continue the Illyrian blood lines.” 

Nesta didn’t look like she was breathing as he gestured slowly to the elbows on either side of his wings. “A few small permanent cuts to the elbow tendons and they can’t fly away. Our wings give us our freedom. To be unable feel the wind beneath our wings so we can’t taste the skies… it’s sacrilege to take that away from us.” 

Cassian swallowed down the anger rising in him, but he couldn’t banish the foggy memory of the gentle, lilting silhouette singing to him as a small boy whilst the campfire licked its way up the dark canvas of the night sky.

“Rhys banned cutting hundreds of years ago when he first became High Lord, but Illyrian’s are hostile to change — their practices, however barbaric, run deep in tradition. That’s one of the reasons why i’ve been stationed here permanently. There has been a rise in cuttings. The Illyrian’s are — ” Cassian paused, considering how much he should tell her. He opted for honesty. She would glean enough when she eventually stepped out into the camp anyway, “- angry about the war. Many of our recruits died and the cuttings are one of their acts of defiance.”

Something moved behind Nesta’s eyes then, a wisp of that ghostly silver. A predator lurking in the darkness. 

“Did you kill him?” Her question was barely audible… yet brimming with a ferocity that burned. “Mas’s husband?”

Cassian thought back to the males screams as he tore them apart, one-by-one. Until that isolated camp was swimming in blood and his leathers were saturated in pain and death. 

“Yes,” he admitted, a low snarl rising unbidden from his throat, “and I _relished_ in it.”

Nesta did not cower at that brutality brimming inside of him. Instead, her nostrils flared at the confession, as she snarled back, “ _Good._ ”

They stared at one another, grey on bistre and he couldn’t look away, couldn’t even breathe for the intensity of it. He felt as if something was tethering them together, as taut and indestructible as carbon steel. It took everything in him to turn away and feign indifference as he cast his eyes to the landscape.

“Mas fell on the mountainside the other day and sprained her wrist,” he said conversationally, as if what had just passed between them was nothing but a fleeting glance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. Pride swelled inside him. Despite her breakdown she had thought to ask Mas if she was ok. “You knew. How?”

“I just knew.”

“How?” Cassian pressed.

“I don’t know,” Nesta snapped. “I’m not being insolent. I just felt something was wrong. I felt her pain as if it were my own. It happens sometimes.”

“You’ve felt others pain? Whose?” he demanded.

“Others,” she ground out unhelpfully. Angrily. “Why are you asking me so many questions?”

Cassian shrugged loosely and leant back on his hands. He tilted his head up to the sky, relishing the warmth of the sun on his skin. “Whilst you seem hellbent on the idea that your power is dangerous, it strikes me as interesting that it seems to tell you something useful. Perhaps your power is multifaceted.”

Nesta stared at him for a moment, her face utterly unreadable. Then, “I had no idea you knew what multifaceted meant.”

He barked a laugh. “Oh sweetheart, I’m full of surprises. If only you let me show you.”

Nesta snarled at the sexual implication but her usual malice wasn’t there. Cassian supposed that was the closest he was getting to a victory when it came to her spiky personality.

“You like Mas?” he asked curiously, serious now as he stood up. He needed to get back to the camp. Azriel was supposed to be arriving at some point and he didn’t want the shadowsinger to find them up here. This slice of time seemed precious and fragile, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his friends presence ruining it.

“What’s not to like?” Nesta replied dismissively, blatantly ignoring the hand he offered her as she got to her feet. She brushed the dirt off of her pants. 

“I wasn’t aware you liked anyone.”

A dangerous, dangerous accusation and one he regretted the instant the words left his mouth. Although his tone was light, he felt a pulse of sadness and disappointment shimmer between them. And then nothing, as if an axe had severed the connection in a swift, icy movement.

He blinked as Nesta broke their gaze. Her voice cold as she glared at the sky. “Then perhaps you haven’t considered that I might have plenty of surprises for you.”

Cassian studied her, drinking in the image of her against the wispy sky; how her hair moved in the breeze and the small crease between her eyebrows as she frowned. In the sunlight, the freckles on her nose stood out stark against her pale skin. It made her appear younger… more beautiful. 

He hadn’t known that was possible.

“No,” he lied. “Maybe I haven’t considered that.”

* * *

Cassian flew Nesta back to the house to find Azriel standing by the door, his shadows weaving around his body like a serpent slithering in long grass.

Cassian set Nesta down on the ground. Her spine had stiffened as soon as she had spotted the shadowsinger leaning casually against the frame and disappointment sighed out of his chest as she quickly let go of him.

“You’re back,” Azriel said knowingly.

“Why are you waiting in the cold freezing your balls off?” Cassian asked brusquely. 

He had no doubt that his brother’s shadows had already sought him out the moment he arrived at the camp. Cassian hoped to the high heavens that Az had made sure to let his shadows carry on the wind past the sparring rings and scare the shit out of Devlon. It was never a bad move to alert the Illyrian’s of Azriel’s presence, especially cocky pricks like the camp Lord. Devlon had always been wary and in awe of Azriel and his gift. Most people were.

Cassian was glad that Azriel hadn’t come to find them himself. Cassian never knew if it was Azriel’s shadows or just his born-ability to read a situation like a pro, but he rarely disrupted a moment he shouldn’t. And he and Nesta’s training up the mountain… that was private. Cassian knew the vulnerability Nesta had exposed by allowing him to train her, and to have that vulnerability interrupted by someone else… Cassian didn’t want to think about how quickly she would have shut him off. How she would allow her power to consume her out of fear and pure stubbornness than allow another crack in her armour.

Azriel dipped his head courteously to Nesta in greeting. To Cassian’s surprise, Nesta mirrored his movement.

Azriel raised his eyebrows at his brother as Nesta moved towards the back door, and Cassian shrugged nonchalantly, trying not to laugh at the blatant surprise on his brother’s face. Cassian never knew what Nesta he was going to get either.

“I knew you wouldn’t be long,” Azriel replied. His blue-black hair ruffled in the wind as he watched Nesta pause at the entrance.

“Cassian,” she bit out. He turned to see her glaring at the locked door. 

“Put your palm to it,” he instructed, and then jerked his chin at Az to follow them inside. 

The kitchen was warm as they headed inside and Cassian automatically discarded his boots. Azriel wordlessly did the same.

“Clean up and then eat,” Cassian called after Nesta as she disappeared without a word.

They waited until the bathroom door clicked shut before Azriel said, “She seems a little better.”

Cassian snorted and walked into the living room, throwing some logs onto the burner to coax the embers back to life. He had made a habit of firing up the log burner before Nesta woke and having Mas tend to it throughout the day. It was partly to keep the house warm and partly to tempt her out of her freezing cold bedroom. And Cassian didn’t know if it was because of his efforts or because she was bored out of her mind, but he often found her in the corner of the couch with a book. It was the spot furthest from the fire, but it was a start. 

“Are you just saying that because she didn’t bite your head off?” Cassian asked curiously, watching as Azriel sat down on the couch.

“Nesta never bites my head off.”

Cassian snorted. “That’s because you barely say a word around her.”

“It’s because I have manners,” Azriel corrected smoothly, “and I don’t do everything in my power to piss her off.”

Cassian flashed his brother a grin. “It’s my charm that riles her.”

Azriel’s sigh was long-suffering. “You’re both forged from the same fire. How many times have you been at one another’s throats since you got here?”

Cassian’s grin turned wild. “It might be better to ask how many times we _haven’t_ been at each other’s throats.”

Azriel eyes trained briefly to the ceiling as if he was praying to the God’s — whether it was for his or Nesta’s safety, Cassian wasn’t sure. “My spies tell me there was a surge of power in The Steppes yesterday.”

“Your spies have never failed you,” Cassian replied easily. “Nesta’s power made an appearance and blasted me back twenty feet.”

Azriel’s hard expression didn’t falter. “I bet you have never been so aroused.”

Throwing his head back, Cassian laughed with delight. “She hit me so hard I stopped breathing. Her power melted straight through my shield like a pebble dropping into a stream.”

Azriel’s eyebrows raised imperceptibly, but it was enough for Cassian to know that he was impressed. “And did you deserve it?”

A fair question. Cassian cocked his head to the side as he leant against the mantle.

“Perhaps,” he admitted.

“Yes, then,” Azriel corrected. “What was it like? Her power?”

Like unfurling, white-hot rage, Cassian thought. Intense and cresting and… he had only felt sheer awe slicing through his fury when that fire had shot from her palms and closed the distance between them. But he only asked, “What did your spies tell you?”

Azriel crossed an ankle over a leg and rested an arm across the back of the couch. His shadows shifted around his neck. “That there was fire of steel stemming into the sky, like lightning striking from the ground up.”

“Then you already know what it’s like,” Cassian replied fluidly. He levelled his brother with a stern look. “Tell me you scared the shit out of Devlon with your shadows when you arrived?”

The left side of Azriel’s mouth twitched. “Of course.”

“Good, he’s been a pain in my ass.”

“And what of the other War Lords?”

Cassian expression tightened but just as he opened his mouth to reply, Nesta emerged from the bathroom. One of his large towels was wrapped tightly around her chest and another was twisted around her head. She acted as if the two males didn’t even exist, her movement as confident and unfazed as a queen.

Cassian’s gaze roamed from the creamy bare skin of her back, to the sharp arch of her wing bones. The urge to bite his way up her spine until he reached her neck was so overwhelming he turned away to banish the image at the forefront of his mind. 

The shadows that usually partially hid Azriel’s face momentarily cleared, revealing a rare amount of amusement as Nesta’s bedroom door clicked shut.

“You can close your mouth now,” he told Cassian.  
  


* * *

  
Cassian had made Azriel patrol the far-end of the camp with him after that, filling him in on his recent visit to Swallow Ridge as they reached the seclusion of the trees. Swallow Ridge was a camp an hour’s flight from Windhaven, run by Lord Herod who made Devlon’s savagery seem positively friendly.

The females had been terrified in the sparring ring when Cassian had arrived. Herod had them fighting with longswords when they were barely equipped to begin with a wooden equivalent — their upper arm strength non-existent. Surrounding them were sneering males, their wings ruffled in unbridled disdain. That alone was enough to tell Cassian that the girls in the ring were a novelty and that had he not been there, they’d be knee-deep in menial domestic tasks. 

Next time, he had vowed to arrive unexpected. He was done with announcing his arrival ahead of time — it just gave them time to prepare.

Cassian had waited towards the end of Azriel’s visit to mention Mor. His brother had always been near unreadable, but Rhys was right — his shadows were dark and restless, twining around him oppressively.

“Have you heard from Mor since she left?” Cassian asked, his tone perfectly casual.

Azriel didn’t still or frown. No coldness swept over him and his eyes didn’t shutter. He was enviably collected, as he said, “No. Rhys doesn’t expect her back for a few more weeks.” 

Cassian wished he was that composed when it came to Nesta.

“Did she —“

“Yes.”

There. For a fraction of a second, Azriel’s shadows became stolid, obscuring his face in total darkness.

“Did you suspect?” Cassian asked quietly.

“For a long time,” Azriel replied, his voice like midnight. A silence followed but the words that both of them were thinking rang clear around them, _For too long._ “I should get back. ”

“I could actually use you here for a few hours,” Cassian said quickly. “I’m overseeing the aerial legion in an hour and could use another pair of eyes in the sky.”

And even though he was certain his brother saw his request for what it was — a distraction — he just inclined his head in agreement.


	9. Heroicis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta meets Emerie and a little orphan. Cassian brings Nesta some salve for her sore muscles...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovely readers for all of your comments! I've had the longest of weeks so I apologise for typos, grammatical errors etc. I'm not thrilled with how this chapter turned out, but I hope you like it all the same. 
> 
> All of your kudos and comments are helping to combat my writer's block, so THANK YOU. I've also just got Tumblr: @duskandstarlight. Now I have to work out what the hell to do with it...

** Chapter Nine  
Nesta **

By the time Nesta emerged from her room, Cassian and Azriel were nowhere to be found. Relieved, Nesta had beelined straight for the kitchen and taken out some leftovers from the cool box. Cassian’s words were still ringing in her ears, _Clean up and then eat._

A part of her balked at the fact that she was listening to him. If he could see her now, following his orders like an obedient fae, he would be nothing but smug. Her irritation spiked at the thought, so she quickly banished him from her mind, focussing instead on heating up some stew on the stove, whilst trying to ignore the demanding groan of her stomach.

Over the past few days, Nesta had grown ravenous. The sensation was different to her previous empty hunger; that careful starvation that she had fended off with alcohol. This was restless and unyielding, and whilst her honed hunger had made her feel powerful, this new appetite made her feel anticipation. 

The sensation of looking forward to something — to feel the slight stir of eagerness in the depth of her gut at the prospect of eating — felt odd. It was a stark contrast to the numbness that had claimed her so often in the past year, deadening every nerve ending until Nesta felt nothing at all. Whilst Nesta had always been well practiced at cutting off her emotions, she had always had control of what she allowed herself to feel. Before the war, Nesta could lower that icy wall and emotion would hit her like a punch to the gut. But after Hybern, the numbness had spread across her whole body uninvited, and where she should have felt fear or pain or sadness, she mostly felt nothing at all. It had been her bed partners — the crest of an orgasm and the thrill of another body moving against hers — that had fleetingly pierced through that numbness. And it had been a cruel irony that Nesta, who had run from feeling too keenly her entire life, was suddenly desperate to feel anything at all.

Taking a steam of bigos into the living room, Nesta curled up in the corner of the couch with _Heroicis_ in her lap. Sighing contentedly around her first mouthful, she opened the book where she had left off. The warrior god Enalius and the goddess Oya were fighting their way across the battlefield to defeat the winged demon Vanth, who had taken the disguise of an Illyrian General. From what Nesta had understood, Enalius and Oya were _pareho,_ which meant they were equals in battle. Oya was a goddess of death and rebirth, her unique ability was to wield nature’s elements to do her bidding in the form of storms and lightning. Enalius was the god of war, leading the Illyrian’s into a battle against the demons who were fuelled by attributes such as greed, anger and jealousy. 

Nobody had been more surprised than Nesta to discover that Illyrian’s believed in goddesses, especially goddesses who were revered enough to master siphons. Nesta had overheard the Inner Circle talking enough times to know that Illyrian males oppressed their females at every turn, and what she had heard from Cassian this morning about Mas… the brutality of what had been done to the Illyrian had made Nesta want to shatter things. It had made that white hot anger that she thought had been expelled so thoroughly yesterday rise beneath the surface of her skin, promising…

Cassian had been in pain talking about it, as if the memory and understanding of what they had done to Mas ran deeper then his tendency for kindness. Because Cassian was kind, Nesta was discovering. He may be General of the Illyrian armies but his fire raged beyond killing. He was compassionate — something that Nesta suspected was enhanced by his ability to read others — so it had hurt when he had accused her of not liking anyone. She didn’t know why she had expected him to understand that whilst she chose to love a select few, she loved them _too_ much. And cutting off her sisters… that had been strategic. She had seen them grow as fae, slowly settling into their new lives whilst she remained behind, broken. So she had severed the connection. It was better to control it before they did it themselves. Her biting personality was tiring enough at the best of times, and to add her trauma on top… well, even she didn’t want to be around herself.

Nesta was used to those she loved abandoning her, anyway.

Banishing the thought, Nesta tucked into her book. She was just taking her second bite of stew when a sharp rap sounded from the front door.

She froze. In the weeks she had been staying in Illyria, nobody apart from Mas and Azriel had come to the house and they had always used the back door. She thought back to Cassian’s words on her first day in Windhaven; that nobody could get into the house without his say-so. She wondered if that enchantment was bound to his will or to the threshold. It was something she probably should have gleaned on that first day. If only she wasn't so stubborn…

The knock came again, louder this time, and Nesta begrudgingly set down her bowl on the pine coffee table. Cautiously, she squinted through the peephole in the door before opening it a fraction.

Before her, a slim female stood on the doorstep, her grey dress obscured by a thick woollen coat that fell down to her knees. Unlike Mas, who had clearly had submission stamped into her all her life, the female in front of her looked Nesta straight in the eye, her jaw set in determination. There was a fierceness to her expression that indicated that she was used to being put down; as if she expected it from everyone she met, but that she refused to let it define her. 

For a moment, the two females stared at each other, evaluating. Nesta raised her chin, her posture as straight as a staff as she took in the females angular face and her piercing eyes. The female was like most Illyrian’s in that she had tan skin and dark features. Her wings were tucked in tight to her back, and whilst she was slender in build, there was a strength about her that made Nesta take stock.

The female held up her arms. In them, were two parcels wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with string. “Lord Cassian asked me to deliver these.”

Her voice was low and modulated, as if she — like Nesta — spent her life controlling every word that came out of her mouth.

“He’s not here,” Nesta replied warily, eyeing the packages as the Illyrian shifted on her feet uncomfortably.

The female nodded her head once in understanding, the sharp ends of her ebony hair swaying just below her shoulders. “Will you take them? He already paid me to deliver.” 

Nesta scrutinised the packages for a moment, trying to figure out what they were. When she came up empty of ideas, she opened the door wide. “You can set them down inside.”

The female hesitated, but Nesta simply turned on her heel and stepped further into the house — she reckoned it was the best way to discover how Cassian’s entry enchantment worked, anyway. 

The weather had made a turn for the worse, the grey restless sky looming with even darker rainclouds that were threatening to burst open at any moment. The icy draft that blew through the door made Nesta long for the warmth of the log burner. The quicker the female was gone, the sooner she could eat her stew whilst it was still hot.

Letting out a short huff of effort, the female stepped inside. Nesta wondered how the female had even managed to carry the parcels all the way through the camp, if she could barely step into the house without breaking a sweat.

Nothing happened. It seemed the entry enchantment was tied to Cassian’s will. Nesta didn’t know whether she was disappointed or relieved. 

“They look heavy,” Nesta said unhelpfully.

“Books tend to be.”

Nesta’s brow creased as she turned. “Books?”

“For you,” the female said simply, as she put down the parcels with a quiet thump on the side table by the door. “Lord Cassian came into the shop last week and asked me to order these in.”

It felt strange hearing Cassian referred to as a Lord. Is that what he was to them, Nesta wondered? She had never heard anybody call him by that title before. General certainly, but Lord? It didn’t fit him somehow. Cassian was hewn from the elements. There was a wildness to him that didn’t — and shouldn’t — fit that persona. The thought made her frustrated, but she didn’t understand why.

“There’s a bookshop here?” Nesta asked instead, trying to keep the intrigue and hope out of her voice. Finally, something good about this forsaken place…

The female snorted in amusement and Nesta’s hackles raised immediately at the sound. Was the female _mocking_ her? As if sensing Nesta’s anger, the Illyrian elaborated, “The majority of Illyrian’s can barely read, so it would be an unprofitable business. I’m Emerie. I run one of the clothing shops.”

“Nesta,” Nesta conceded finally, watching carefully as Emerie dared to look around. Her dark eyes widened briefly as she took in the living room with it’s warm lighting and comfortable furniture, before snapping back to Nesta’s. Cassian’s home was by no means the finest Nesta had been in, but she had seen enough of the camps to know that most Illyrian’s had very little. 

“I know who you are,” Emerie replied. When she noticed Nesta’s narrowed eyes, she shrugged. “Not much goes on here, so naturally you’re the talk of the camp.”

Nesta didn’t want to know exactly _what_ they were saying about her. Her memory of her first trip outside to check on Mas was still piecemeal at best, and she had already spent nights worrying about the damage she had caused. Too often she woke from dreams of shattering ice and tendrils of silver mist seeping from her fingertips; of Cassian’s bleeding face and the wind whipping around them…

Nesta crossed her arms — it was a defensive stance she immediately regretted exposing. “I didn’t think females had a right to own anything here.”

“They don’t, I’m an anomaly,” Emerie said sourly. 

It was Nesta’s turn to snort. “I know the feeling.”

It was true. Nesta had never fit in. Her biting personality had always made her an anomaly in a world of sweet and smiling ladies. And now, her power set her apart and made her different. Especially here, in the mountains… What was it that sneering male had called her when she first visited the camp? A witch? Nesta still didn’t know what that meant, but she had no doubt the whole of Windhaven believed her to be wicked after she lost control.

Emerie stepped back outside, as if being inside the house had made her uncomfortable. As she did so, Nesta’s eyes snagged on the slivers of neat white scars down the elbows of her wings. She had been clipped.

Nesta had only recently started to enjoy taking to the skies. It felt freeing in a way that she couldn’t explain. She could only imagine what it felt like to be born with a gift that you could no longer use. A gift that had been taken away from you so you couldn’t run away. To only be valued by the other sex for your ability to bear children seemed a cruel and twisted way to perceive females, Nesta thought. Especially considering that without females, there would be no children at all. 

“It’s better to be feared here than to be seen as an easy target, _witch_.” 

Emerie’s words snapped Nesta out of her thoughts. She was surprised to see a glint in the Illyrian’s eyes, as if she were amused rather than afraid. 

At a loss for words, Nesta watched Emerie pull up the hood of her coat to shield her from the spitting rain. The low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance — a promise of the heavy downpour that was soon to hit the camp.

Emerie rose her eyebrows at Nesta. “If you want more books, come by the shop with a list. I can order more.”  
  


* * *

  
Nesta left the parcels on the side table, their presence pulling her focus even though she tried in vain to continue with the Illyrian poetry. Cassian had bought her more books. Lots of books, if the size of the packages were any indication. Her fingers itched to tear the brown paper and undo the string, but she denied herself. What if Emerie had been mistaken? Perhaps they weren’t for her. Either way, she certainly couldn’t open them without Cassian giving them to her…

Yet the parcels continued to call to her for the next hour and a half. Eventually, Nesta closed her book with a frustrated sigh as Mas bustled into the room. 

“Diyosa,” Mas nodded in greeting, a duster in hand. 

Nesta opened her mouth to say hello but then she paused. 

“Diyosa?” she asked, the meaning of the word dawning on her.

Mas’s smile was broad as she patted Nesta on the cheek. “This means goddess in Illyria. You are strong and powerful, just like our goddess Oya. Now, have you eaten?”

Nesta blinked, a lump forming in her throat. The sudden emotion was strange and overwhelming. _You are strong and powerful._

She waited until she was certain her voice wouldn’t waver. “I had some of the leftover bigos.”

“You liked it?” Mas asked, polishing the mantle. 

“Very much,” Nesta admitted. 

And it was true. When she had first come here, Nesta had expected Illyrian food to be as bland and repetitive as the relentless training and the harsh conditions. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Their dishes exuded warmth and comfort, the gentle spices heating your very bones and warding away the chill. _Bigos,_ or Warrior’s Stew as Mas had informed her, was a staple of Illyrian cuisine and consisted of spicy sausage, pork, cabbage and apple. It was a dream combination and if Nesta hadn’t spent years moulding an expressionless mask, she would have moaned around her first mouthful at dinner the other night.

Despite her restraint, she had a feeling Cassian had known. He had a way of observing her that left her feeling exposed; as if he could sometimes see inside her head and identify all of the pleasure and anguish and rage. It was one of the reasons she had pushed him away in the first place. 

“I will make you more today,” Mas said. “It is General Cassian’s favourite, too. Shall I get you some chai?”

“I can get my own,” Nesta assured the Illyrian, unfurling from the couch and straightening her numb legs. 

Never before had Nesta had an issue with servants doing her bidding, but there was something about Mas that made Nesta think differently. She thought of Mas’ poor wings; the mottled scar tissue and what must be brutal memories behind each mark. Her life had been far worse than Nesta’s. She deserved so much more than this life had granted her. 

A wash of protectiveness overcame Nesta at the thought and she stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. “Mas, would you like some? Some chai, I mean?”

Mas looked up from where she was polishing the mantle, startled. “No, no Lady Nesta. Don’t trouble yourself, I am not thirsty.”

The pan of chai was still on the stove from that morning. Nesta left it to simmer and pulled down two earthenware mugs from the cupboard. She hadn’t believed Mas for a second when she had said she didn’t want any chai. It had saddened her that even in a safe space, Mas still believed her needs to be subordinate.

Leaving the pan to boil, Nesta moved to the pantry. Despite her efforts to ignore Cassian’s offer, Nesta had been unable to resist his supply of chocolate. Pulling open the pantry door, Nesta was only thinking of the creamy milk chocolate she had spied the day previous, so when she was confronted with a living, breathing Illyrian she cried out without thinking. 

“What’s wrong?” Mas was behind Nesta in an instant. 

Nesta gestured wordlessly to the pantry. The girl was huddled in the corner, her tiny body pressed against the glass jars and food supplies. Her wings rustled instinctively at the sight of Nesta and she gripped her knees tighter, trying to make her body even smaller.

Mas paled and bustled straight into the small space, her hands on her hips. 

“Roksana, out of the cupboard! You gave Lady Nesta a fright.” The little girl tried to twist away as Mas pulled her to her feet, but she settled as Mas lifted her onto her hip and ran her chapped hands through the girls unruly hair. “I’m sorry Lady Nesta,” Mas apologises. “Roksana was supposed to be folding the laundry in the outhouse.”

“No, it’s all right.” Nesta said, slowly breathing to control her racing heart. “She’s your granddaughter?”

Sadly, Mas shook her head. “She’s newly orphaned. General Cassian said she could work here with me.”

Nesta’s chest constricted. Of course he had. _Of course._ It was no doubt an attempt to prevent her from a worse job elsewhere.

“What happened to her mother?” Nesta asked quietly.

Mas shook her head. “I haven’t been able to find out. Roksana barely speaks, I’ve only learnt her name so far.”

Nesta stared at the small, grubby orphan and despite the difference in features, she saw herself. The girl’s expression was dangerously blank — dead.

It sparked Nesta into action. 

“Sit her down at the table,” Nesta told Mas brusquely. “She’s too young to be doing chores. Has she eaten?”

“No,” Mas started slowly, but she set the girl down on a chair like she had been told, “we will eat later.”

“She’ll eat now,” Nesta replied firmly, rustling in the cool box. “She’s skin and bone. You can feed her at the table every day when you get in. Make sure she eats plenty.”

“Yes, Lady Nesta.”

Taking out the remaining leftovers of bigos, Nesta placed it in a pot and started to heat it up. Mas bustled around her, trying to take over but Nesta just waved her away. 

When the food was piping hot, she placed the bowl in front of the little girl. Nesta bent over to offer Roksana a spoon. 

“Be careful, it’s hot,” she warned the girl. 

Big, dark eyes stared up at her and after a moments hesitation, Roksana’s chubby fingers wrapped around the silver spoon. The action was disbelieving and it made Nesta’s throat constrict to see a child so young assume that the food might disappear at any moment. At least Nesta had been older and able to understand… even if she’d not wanted to.

In an attempt to reassure the girl, Nesta tried to smile. The unused muscles ached and screamed at the effort. Only the corners of her mouth twitched, but it was something. 

Straightening up, Nesta smoothed down the crinkles in her dress. She turned back to the stove, pouring the now boiling chai into two mugs. She handed one to Mas, ignoring the housekeepers look of surprise. 

“Make sure you eat, too,” Nesta ordered Mas as she left the room. “You know Cassian doesn’t mind.”  
  


* * *

  
When Cassian arrived back at the bungalow well after dusk, Azriel was nowhere to be found. He nodded at Nesta as he walked into the living room. 

“Have you eaten?” he asked, tiredly pulling the leather tie from his hair. Dark tangled curls fell around his shoulders, the strands midnight black against the olive of his sweaty tunic. 

Nesta put down her book. “No.” 

She had been waiting for him, not that she’d say that.

“I’ll warm up that leftover bigos,” he said.

“It’s gone,” she told him. “I gave it to Roksana and Mas.”

The tiredness in Cassian’s eyes was suddenly replaced with something else. He looked… pleased. “I’ll make something then. I just need to wash up, I’ve been flying for hours.”

Normally Nesta would have just nodded at him, keen for him to leave her alone, but today she sat up and closed her book. The muscles in her body barked out in protest. She was already sore from the training he had put her through and every movement had become pained.

“You visited another camp?” she asked, cautiously easing herself into a comfortable position.

A shake of the head. “No, Az and I were overseeing the aerial unit in Windhaven today.”

That would explain the windswept look about him, Nesta thought. She had seen the Illyrian’s training in formation out of the window, their streamlined bodies racing black dots against the blue backdrop.

“I can cook if you’re too tired,” she told him with a shrug. She was starving again… starving enough to attempt to make something herself. “I used to cook sometimes…” 

Nesta trailed off. She was unable to finish the words out loud, but in her mind’s eye she saw the stone cottage they had lived in when they had nothing. Rarely, Nesta had seen it in herself to cook when Feyre managed to bring something home for them to eat. Nesta never did it enough, she had known that then and she knew it now. She had always hoped it would spark some reaction from her father, but he had always sat at the table with glazed eyes, hollow… The sight had angered her so much she’d usually deliberately move his cane out of reach when he retreated back to the meagre fire. The small victory of watching him strain for it had smoothed over her rage, if only for the evening. 

“No, I like too cook,” Cassian interjected quickly.

Nesta tried not to be thankful but failed. She had no idea what she would have cobbled together if he had said yes. She didn’t even know why she had offered to cook in the first place. 

She watched as Cassian’s eyes slide beyond her to the parcels by the door. He looked almost relieved to see them.

“Emerie stopped by?” he asked, his eyes now fixed firmly on the wall, as if he were avoiding looking at her altogether.

Nesta frowned inwardly at his sudden awkwardness. Cassian was usually all casual arrogance and swagger. Had her gesture really thrown him off that much?

“She came by earlier,” Nesta said carefully. 

Striding towards the side table, Cassian plucked the packages into his arms and placed them onto the coffee table as if they were as light as air. “They’re for you — more books. I told Emerie you mainly read smutty romance, so you should be happy to curl underneath the bed covers with them.”

He grinned wolfishly as she snarled, even if it did lack the usual bite. He had suddenly perked up, as if a gust of energy was fuelling him. She should have known trouble was coming from the mischief that gleamed in his eyes. “I’m going to bathe. Would you care to join, sweetheart?”

“In your dreams,” she snapped.

“Such good dreams, though,” he mused playfully, as he headed down the hallway to the bathroom. And then just as the door clicked shut, his voice floated back into the living room, “Your mouth does such wonderful things.”

This time, her snarl was a wild beast in her chest. She could have sworn she still felt Cassian’s amusement long after the water had started to run.

* * *

  
Dinner was chicken, buttery potatoes and roasted vegetables. Cassian clearly hadn’t been lying; he did like to cook and he was _good_ at it. It was something else to add to the list of things that surprised her about him. 

His hair was back in its usual bun as he placed a plate in front of her on the coffee table, amidst the discarded brown paper and string.

Nesta had been poring over the books he had bought her, but she looked up as he sat on the other corner of the couch with his own plate balanced on his palm. He stretched his legs out in front of him and tucked in.

“Any good?” he asked lightly, between mouthfuls.

Picking up her own plate, Nesta took a bite of chicken. It was perfectly cooked, the meat tender and falling off the bone. Her stomach gurgled happily, suddenly awake and ferocious. 

“I’ve not read them before,” she replied, casting an eye over the spines as she reread the unfamiliar titles. “I’ll start tomorrow.” Then after a moments hesitation, mainly because she had to wrestle the words out of her mouth, she added, “Thank you.”

When had she last thanked anyone? And most of all, when had she actually meant it?

Cassian merely nodded and carried on eating. Nesta wondered if he understood what books meant to her, the escape it provided. Especially here, where there was nothing to do. She had never had a purpose, not really… apart from caring for Elain. But she had failed on that count. She had failed Feyre too, she supposed, but that was long, long ago and almost wasn’t worth thinking about. That opened a whole other can of worms that Nesta didn’t want to go anywhere near.

“What did you think of Emerie?” Cassian asked after a long while.

Nesta glanced sideways at him. 

“Her wings are clipped,” she said shortly.

Cassian sighed. “Yes, I was surprised to see that. Windhaven is usually the better of the camps. Unfortunately, during Amarantha’s reign things went backwards rather than forwards and it hit a lot of the female population.” Cassian put down his empty plate on the coffee table and sunk down into the cushions so he was nearly flat. “Emerie reminds me a bit of you.”

“What do you mean?” Nesta asked stiffly, straightening.

“I mean _that_ ,” Cassian laughed, gesturing to her posture. “You both stack yourselves in the same way. Defiant. Strong. You even have the same lift to your chin.”

Nesta wrestled down the flush that wanted to rise to her cheeks and scowled instead. “That’s better than the other females around here who won’t even look up from the floor.”

“Exactly,” Cassian said firmly. “We need more females like Emerie around here.”

“That’s what you’re trying to do by training the girls?” Cassian looked at her, surprised. He had told her about the girls before, but that had been when she was a shaking mess from the alcohol withdrawal. He had taken to visiting her at the beginning, speaking to her about his day in the hope that she would touch the food he’d brought her. She had rarely even acknowledged his presence, until eventually he’d barely come at all. 

“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I’m stationed here. I oversee the training. Devlon is… half-hearted at best. The men don’t think females are worthy of being warriors. They make the girls lives…difficult.”

Nesta thought back to the book of Illyrian poetry she had been reading earlier — of the goddess Oya and her equal strength to the god Enalius…

“But there are warrior goddesses in Illyrian culture. They even have siphons.”

“We have one,” Cassian nodded. He did not question where she had discovered the information. He was nothing but perceptive and had most likely noticed what she had been reading over the past few days.

“We have one: the goddess Oya. Unfortunately Illyrian tradition states that females are for breeding and males will… refuse to marry female warriors. It has put a lot of the females off. As you have probably seen, Illyrian’s don’t have much money, so a lot of pressure is put on the females to marry into wealthier families. At the moment, females have no choice but to stay defenceless if they want any hope of helping their loved ones. It means that they can’t fight back against the males should they need to. And unfortunately, they need to more often than i’d like.”

“That’s barbaric,” Nesta clipped.

“Is that not what was expected of you when you were younger?” Cassian asked quietly. “Is that not also barbaric?”

Nesta’s expression hardened. She had not thought of it that way before… not really. She had always secretly rallied against the notion that she was to marry someone for fortune or to secure her family a place on the social ladder. She had always wanted to marry for love, but that too had been tainted, after Tomas…

She could tell that Cassian was watching her carefully, so she made her face smooth… unreadable. 

“They didn’t mutilate me,” she replied coarsely. But then she thought of Tomas, of the way he had forced himself on her, the pressure of his body as he pushed her face down on the dirty floor. He would have clipped her wings, if she’d had them. Anything to stop her getting away.

Her face betrayed her, and although she expelled the pain as soon as it flitted across her face, she knew it was too late. Cassian had seen it. She could tell by his sudden stillness and the crackle in the air, as if the atmosphere around them had snapped taut.

“I’m going to get ready for bed,” she said abruptly, standing quickly. Her muscles screamed in protest but she held back a wince, standing tall.

Cassian’s eyes were laced with something that looked like sadness as he collected her plate and stood himself. “Good night.”

Nesta had a feeling he was still staring after her a long time after she had disappeared into her room.  
  


* * *

  
Nesta was just sliding beneath the blankets when Cassian knocked on her door, her name a muffled murmur through the wood.

“What?” she bit out. Her room was freezing and she was keen to get under the piles of blankets. She was also keen to forget their moment earlier — the way he had so easily read her mind and knew what she had been thinking about.

“I’ve got some salve for you.”

Grumbling at the pain that shot through her arms, shoulder blades and chest when she moved, Nesta yanked open the door. 

Cassian was leaning causally against the doorframe. He waggled a small glass jar in front of her face. “To help your sore muscles recover in time for tomorrow’s workout,” he explained.

Nesta snatched it out of his hands before remembering the new stack of books on her side table — the books that he had bought for her. The gift had provided her with a new wave of enthusiasm for reading, and she had been planning on curling up in bed to start the first before she extinguished the lights. 

With that in mind, she said tightly, “Thank you.” 

Again, the words felt foreign on her lips and she saw the surprise flicker briefly across Cassian’s face. He had clearly been expecting a venomous comment. The thought gave her satisfaction. 

Cassian stepped forward before she could shut the door. He grinned at her slowly, his eyes glinting with a look she had learnt only meant trouble. “And how exactly are you planning on rubbing that on your back?”

“I’ll manage,” she hissed.

“Oh?” Cassian challenged, stepping closer. “I bet you’re hurting right here.” The brief touch of his fingers between her shoulder blades and her lower back felt like a brand and she swatted him away instinctively. “You’re going to hurt tomorrow if you don’t let me help.”

And if her muscles hadn’t been crying out at her for the slightest movement, she would have pushed him out the door. But he was right, she couldn’t reach between her shoulder blades and that’s where she hurt the most. She mentally sent every filthy curse she could think of up to the heavens. 

Cassian’s grin widened, as if he could hear inside of her head.

“If this is an elaborate ploy to get me undressed —” she started, but Cassian cut her off, holding his hands up.

“It’s not,” he insisted. “I promise. I’ll be the model of decorum — the utmost gentlemale.”

“Fine,” she snarled. “Get out and I’ll call you when i’m ready.”  
  


* * *

  
Nesta had already applied some of the chamomile-scented salve to her arms and chest by the time she let Cassian back in. The salve burned pleasantly against her skin and she felt the heat instantly smooth over the creases of pain so they became a dull throb. 

Cassian raised an eyebrow at her when she opened the door, as if to ask what had taken so long. There had been something satisfying about keeping him waiting. It gave her back that little bit of control.

She expected him to goad her about the towel she had wrapped around her chest, but he stayed quiet. He just twirled a finger, asking her to turn.

“All over?” he asked, his voice no longer playful but matter-of-fact. Respectful, even.

Nesta nodded. There was a pause and it took her a moment to realise it was because she hadn’t loosened the towel. She brought it around to her front, exposing her back and then raised an arm to pull her hair out of the way whilst trying to make sure the towel didn’t slip. She would _die_ if the towel fell… Not because she was modest — Nesta had stopped caring about that after the first month of bedding males — but the satisfaction she knew it would bring him to see her bare skin. The teasing that would ensue…

As if sensing her agitation, Cassian said, "Let me.” 

His voice was low and close to her ear. She felt the warmth of him — the heat that always seemed to radiate off of him regardless of the weather outside — before he had even moved to sweep her hair to one side. He was surprisingly gentle and her skin pebbled as his rough callouses ghosted across her upper back and neck. 

“Sorry,” he apologised. “I'll be quick, I know it's cold.”

“Just get it over with," she gritted out. 

“This stuff is good,” Cassian told her casually, as he started to rub it into her shoulders with deft, practical hands. “I use it a lot. I know humans usually have the worst muscle pain on their second and third day, but fae bodies recover more quickly. You’ll be sore tomorrow, but it shouldn't last much longer than that.”

“Good,” she said shortly. She ground her teeth harder as Cassian started applying more salve to her the sore muscles between her shoulder blades.

“You need to start eating right, too,” he continued, working his way down to her lower back. “And _lots_ to gain back the weight. I can tell —”

The air between them _trembled_. If anyone had told Nesta that was possible she would have snorted and thought it nonsense. But that was what was happening, the air was _quaking,_ and Nesta didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know that Cassian was suddenly and unequivocally angry. She frowned in confusion. What on earth was the brute angry about now? 

She was just about to snap at him to get a hold of himself when he spoke, his voice so deep and menacing that if Nesta didn't know he would never hurt her, she would have been petrified. It made her understand why he was the General of the Night Court’s armies. It made her understand why he had seven siphons…

“How old is that scar?”

And then everything clicked into place. 

Nesta had forgotten. She had forgotten the scar from that day when Tomas had pushed up her skirts, his jagged fingernails clawing into her skin as she had kicked him away. Her family had never had cause to see her back, to see the deep gauges that had been ripped into her skin... the four long lines it had left behind. Nesta had thought that the Cauldron had rid her of all of the other scars she had gained as a human. It did not surprise her in the slightest that the blasted thing had re-made her anew but kept that eternal reminder on her back as punishment.

A lump rose in her throat, but Nesta managed to master her voice into one of complete indifference. “What scar?”

Cassian didn't fall for that act. If possible his voice dropped even lower and it rumbled through her like thunder. “Nesta, is that scar new or is it from that _human_?”

The fact that he had guessed how she had got it even though she had barely opened her mouth left her incensed. That power roiled inside of her and she didn't stop it as it sparked from her fingertips.

Whirling on the spot, she hissed, “You said you would do this _quickly_.”

Nesta watched those eyes of his change from deep black to chocolate brown. It was like the sun peeking between thunder clouds, and even though his expression still promised vengeance, he held up his hands, surrendering to that power of hers. 

Blowing out a long breath, Cassian roughly rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “I’m sorry Nesta, ok? Just… let me do this. Turn around.”

She stared him down, her steely glare versus his shadowy eyes. And in their depths, through all of that anger was sadness. Not pity — Nesta couldn't bare anyone to pity her — but sadness that she had suffered in silence. It was the same look he had worn when he had told her about Mas; a look that ran like a wound that had been festering inside of him for a long time. It was that understanding that had her backing down. She turned away from him — a mute instruction to continue.

Cassian worked in silence. The air remained as sharp as a razor and only when his hands passed over those silvery lines — his hands suddenly more gentle despite his callouses — did he say, “I’ll kill him for you, if that’s what you want.”  


Nesta raised her chin, defiant. She didn't know why, but she wanted to smooth away his anger. “Why should I let you? It would take the joy out of knowing I can do it myself whenever the mood strikes.”

Cassian’s laugh was low and dark as a starless night. “Whilst that is a good point, the offer still stands. Or perhaps I can come with you, when you do decide to pay him a visit."

Screwing the lid back on the salve, Cassian placed it on the dresser as she pulled her nightgown back up. It was freezing in her room and she glanced at the inviting pile of blankets on her bed... at the book she was itching to open to the first page.

“I’ll get a log burner installed for your room this week.” 

“I —“ she started without thinking, ready to protest, but then she closed her mouth. A log burner would make everything so much more bearable. It would make everything so much _warmer_.

Cassian sent her a lopsided smile, despite the haunted look that hadn't left his eyes. “I’ll see you bright and early for round two. Don’t be late.”


	10. Feyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta continues to spar with Cassian, and Cassian goes back to Velaris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers. It's another Sunday which means another chapter! We get some Feyre interaction in this update. As always, I adore your comments and can't wait to know what you think! The more I write this fic, the more I fall in love with Nesta. And Cassian... he's so much sexier than Rhys. Amirite? 
> 
> Also guys, the next chapter is one of my favourites I've written so far. Sorry that's such a tease... but expect lots more plot development and some really great conversations between Cassian and Nesta. PROGRESS WILL BE MADE. Hurrah!

** Chapter Ten  
Cassian  **

They trained at the top of the mountain every day over the next three weeks. Nesta was relentlessly focussed. Cassian wasn’t sure if it was from her refusal to back down or just sheer determination (he suspected a mixture of the two), but no matter how hard he pushed her, she never complained. By the end of the first week, he had already weaved in step-work and a number of punching sequences into their boxing regime that he hadn’t been able to introduce with Feyre for well over a fortnight. 

When Nesta got into the rhythm of punching, he often lost her. Her body was with him but her mind was driven by another force, the neat smack of her fists a melody to something else going on with her entirely. When she retreated particularly far into herself, her power would usually manifest in that ghostly mist that swirled around her clenched hands. It never harmed him, but he never forgot the force of it as it had slammed into his chest and knocked all of the breath out of his lungs. 

“If you feel like you can’t control it, blast it upwards,” Cassian told her one morning, as that mist swirled faster and faster, readying to strike. He didn’t balk from it as it started to travel up her arms, he merely stood fast, letting her finish the sequence with a near perfect upper cut. “It’s better to extinguish it safely then push it down,” he explained, before telling her to take a break.

Nesta nodded, looking at her fists with a contemplative look on her face as that mist vanished on the air like a parting fog. It was the first time Cassian had seen her look at her power with anything but unbridled hatred and fear.

She had been particularly quiet this morning when she had sat down for breakfast — he had hardly gotten more than a few words out of her. He hadn’t pushed her — he hadn’t slept well, so much so that he had substituted tea for a strong coffee. He had lain awake for hours after he woke from a nightmare, sweating and gasping for breath. He had watched the Forktail aerial fleet disappear in front of his eyes, their ash floating into his mouth and his ears, until he was coated in it, the taste of death on his tongue… 

Now, Cassian watched Nesta pour herself a glass of water and gulp it down. She was sweating hard despite the cold. He followed the pale column of her throat as she swallowed. 

“I can’t train you tomorrow,” he told her after a pause. Nesta looked at him. Her eyes were more grey than blue today… unreadable. “I have business at another camp,” he explained, “and then I’m required back in Velaris. I should be back by sunset.”

Nesta nodded again — the only sign that she had heard him. There was a part of him that wanted to taunt her until she snapped at him, but living with Nesta was giving him an insight into her moods. There were days when he could rile her and she would spar with him verbally, her expression a living and breathing thing. But then there were days when she was wholly withdrawn. It was different to the haunted Nesta — the worst of her moods that still left part of him terrified — where there was no emotion behind her eyes. She was more pained those days, as if she had been left raw. Today was one of those moods. So Cassian trod carefully, often leaving her to herself. Even if it did pain him to watch her sit with a book without making progress, her eyes staring at the page but her mind somewhere else entirely. 

“Would you like me to pick up anything for you whilst I’m back?” he asked. He watched her fiddle with her wrappings, securing the material which was coming loose on her left wrist. “I can take some money out for you, or I can take your sisters letters, if you wanted to write.”

It was a long shot, he knew. Nesta had ignored every letter that he had given her from her sisters. Nesta had refused to even look in the basket Elain had put together for her. He had ended up eating the blueberry plate pie himself and hadn’t dared to put the freshly cut flowers — no doubt from one of Elain’s gardens — in her room. They had sat in a vase in the kitchen instead. He had watched them slowly wither away and die, the petals shrivelling up until Mas got rid of them. He had never seen Nesta so much as glance at them.

Without responding, Nesta settled back into the stance he had taught her, fists raised. 

He rose his palms again, willing to play along. “Pivot more on your outside foot when you throw those hooks. Another round of the same, and then we’ll go over those defensive moves.”

He watched her feet as they danced around the makeshift ring, but he called her to a stop after a few minutes. There was something in her posture that was off-balance and it was throwing her out of sync.

“Are you tired? Did you sleep?”

The slightest of frowns creased between Nesta’s eyebrows. Then, as quick and as deadly as a lightning fork splintering the sky, she threw back, “Did you?”

Cassian stared at her, assessing. Had she heard him? He didn’t tend to cry out during those haunted dreams, instead he often woke unable to move, his body paralysed with fear as his chest heaved for breath.

“Your weight is off balance,” he explained, ignoring her question as he swept over her body with a critical eye. 

He made to move towards her but then he stopped, remembering the claw mark on her lower back. “Can I touch you?”

“What?” The word was clipped and surprised. Cassian hadn’t known it possible to throw Nesta awry.

“Stand up straight,” he ordered, discarding the pads on the floor. “I need to take a look.”

Nesta cast him a glare but did as he asked. He circled behind her and he watched her shoulders tense warily. He had noticed when they were practicing their defensive moves that she didn’t like when he came up behind her. It made it hard to swallow if he started to contemplate why, but it was no doubt connected to that human _filth_ who he had vowed to raze to the ground if she’d let him.

“What is it?” she questioned sharply as he came to stand at her side. 

Resting a palm on her back, Cassian steepled the fingers of his other hand so they were resting lightly on her stomach. 

“Tense,” he commanded. “Again.” 

He nodded after a moment. “We need to get you doing some core exercises.” 

Cassian rested his fingers against his abdomen this time, sensing her rising irritation at his touch. “If you strengthen these muscles, you will support the punches and it will keep you balanced. Let’s carry on, but keep your abdomen tense when you hit. It will protect your back.”

Cassian worked Nesta for another hour. He never commented when she would intermittently raise her palms to the sky, that blast of power a blazing a hot path into the clouds. It was nowhere near as damning as that day when he’d pushed her too far. Then it had seemed endless as it unleashed itself from her palms. Now Nesta unshackled it in short blasts, a staccato in the otherwise smooth dance as they punched and stepped around one another. He hadn’t known she were able to control it in that way. When they had fought the King her lack of training had seen her expel it too quickly, and when he had provoked her in The Steppes... well, a year of suppressed power had poured forth, clawing for release, until she was so drained he had needed to carry her limp body home. For some reason, Cassian knew she didn’t know how she was doing it either, but neither of them spoke about it, keeping quiet save for her pants and his odd grunt as he drove his pad to meet her fist.

When they had finished, he wordlessly took the bindings as she unwrapped them from her palms. Nesta was standing at the edge of the precipice, fearlessly looking down to the left of the rock face. Like the route leading up to the widow’s camp, the mountain path jagged its way up through the stone. Near the bottom, male Illyrian’s in full leathers were running their way silently up the side of the mountain, not a grunt or a groan travelling up on the wind. It was a brutal exercise and one that Cassian had done countless times. Even the hardest of Illyrian’s were known to pause to empty their stomachs during the brutal ascent.

“We should get you doing that when you’re stronger.” 

Nesta’s head turned slightly, indicating that she had heard him, but she didn’t reply. He had a feeling that she would be outraged if he didn’t treat her like any other warrior, yet he could see the trepidation in the way she stilled. 

“You can get strong by punching, but cross training is important for optimum fitness. It’s an easy route from the house,” he explained, thinking of the quiet, back path that would be less likely to trigger her battle fatigue. “I’ll show you on the way back.”  
  


* * *

  
Azriel transported Cassian to the new house the next day, in the way that his brother could move through shadows. Cassian had never asked how Azriel did it, but it felt different to winnowing. Rather than moving through pockets of air, travelling with Azriel was more like fading and reappearing, your entire body melting in and out of shadow. 

Cassian preferred it. At least he could breathe whilst they moved.

Feyre came out to meet them as they appeared in the courtyard, braving the fuzzy rain that drizzled from the heavens. She was dressed in her usual cream sweater and leggings, her hair loose as she hugged him tight. Autumn had truly descended on Velaris, the trees overshadowing the courtyard aflame with vibrant shades or reds, yellows and oranges. It was a stark contrast to the mountains, which felt like they had been immersed in the steadfast grasp of winter for months already.

“From that hug I’m guessing you’ve missed me,” Cassian teased, dropping a kiss on the top of Feyre’s head as she gave him another squeeze.

“You look windswept,” she answered in reply. She drew back to survey him, her nose crinkling in a way that was so Nesta, Cassian wondered how he hadn’t noticed the similarity before. 

He flicked the end of her nose playfully to rid himself of the thought. Nesta was still mostly withdrawn and silent. He had left her on the couch back at the house, Roksana’s face peeking out from underneath the opposite piece of furniture. The little girl had a habit of following Nesta around. Cassian didn’t know if Nesta was unaware of it, or if she was just purposefully ignoring the shy little girl so as not to scare her. Something told him that it was the latter, although he didn't know if that was just wishful thinking on his part. He knew she cared more than she let on; Mas had informed him that Nesta insisted that both the housekeeper and Roksana ate as soon as they came to the house at midday. Nesta could pretend she was cold-hearted all she liked, but Cassian had always known there was more to her. And that side of her was emerging, in little actions and words. Cassian tried not to think about it too much. He was already too invested in her. Sometimes he feared that if she ever stopped breathing he would too, as if were a witch himself and had chosen to give her his heart.

Cassian made himself grin at Feyre, his canines flashing in the autumnal light. “Flying is never kind to the hair,” he answered with mock woe.

“Ass,” Feyre muttered, swatting at his hand. “Rhys is caught up in a meeting, but he said he’ll be back soon. Do you both want lunch?”

Azriel shook his head. “I’ve got places to be.”

Feyre took Cassian’s hand as Az disappeared into shadow. 

“It’s been quiet without you and Mor here,” she told him, as she led him back into the house. “Mor is due back later this week.”

Cassian nodded. Azriel had mentioned it briefly. His brother’s face had been devoid of emotion when he had parted from the information, but those shadows had clung to him that little bit tighter. Cassian suspected it would be a long time yet until Azriel was able to face Mor without hurting. Cassian wasn’t sure if that would be from heart ache or because he had wasted so much time. 

Cassian followed Feyre into the kitchen. It was a large, open room with rustic wooden countertops and cream cupboards, divided by a huge kitchen island with cushioned bar stools at one end. Along the side of the room ran floor to ceiling windows, which cast a view out to the rambling garden. From here, he could see the snake of the river as it wound it’s way along the bottom of the perimeter, and the weeping willows which dipped their long tendrils into the water. 

One quick glance around the kitchen told Cassian that the wraiths were nowhere to be found. He watched Feyre pull food from the pantry and cool box, before she piled the food onto two plates; breads, cheese, olives, cured meats and dips — all of the things he had missed whilst he had been gone. Cassian loved Illyrian food more than anything, but they kept to warming stews rather than platters of simple fare, and that was just what he was hungering for. 

Cassian started to rid himself of his weapons — he was eager to sit himself down. He hadn’t taken a break since his silent breakfast with Nesta that morning and his wings ached. They had a tendency to complain ever since the war with Hybern, the pressing pain slicing up the finger bones on his wings where they had been snapped. It was always worse on wet days like this, as if his body was grumbling at the poor weather. 

Feyre laughed at him as he upended all of his weaponry onto the table. It was by no means an extensive collection, but he’d made sure he went well-armed to Swallow Ridge. There had been no girls in the sparring ring when he had arrived, and Cassian had become a snarling beast, his siphons flashing threateningly until Lord Herod had got all of the girls onto the training plateau. Cassian had overseen the session himself. His bad mood had been enough to keep the sneering males away, but he could tell the girls would rather fade away into the background than learn the importance of placing a punch.

Cassian needed to change the attitudes that were deeply ingrained in the camps. He needed the females to feel worthy of protecting themselves. He just didn’t know how.

“Not carrying much today, then?” Feyre teased.

Cassian winked at her. “I always come equipped.”

The amusement that danced in Feyre’s eyes was a stark contrast to her reprimanding tut. “Disgusting. I hope you haven’t been saying things like that to my sister.”

Cassian’s smile faltered. He had known that he was going to have to talk about Nesta, but he had thought they might have more time. The more he and Nesta had lived together, the more uncomfortable he had become with reporting back to the Inner Circle. He tried to reconcile his discomfort by telling himself that Feyre was his High Lady — he had a duty to serve her — yet what he had with Nesta… well, it made this aspect of the arrangement tricky. 

“Sorry,” Feyre apologised with a wince, “that was tactless.”

Cassian grunted, leaning back in his chair, “It’s ok, I assumed you were waiting for a segway to discuss her anyway.”

Feyre handed him a plate piled high with food. He raised an eyebrow at her. 

She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I know how you like to eat your body weight in food. You’re worse than Rhys.” 

Feyre sat down opposite him at the kitchen island, but she didn’t touch her plate. Instead, she pulled her sleeves over her hands. The movement was unsure and her voice was tentative as she asked, “How is she?”

Cassian paused from loading his flatbread with cheese and meat.

“Assuming Rhys has filled you in on what I’ve told them…” he started. Feyre nodded in confirmation. “Then…she’s been very withdrawn this week.”

Feyre nodded again, slower this time, as if the news weren’t unexpected. “It was the anniversary of our mother’s death yesterday,” she admitted, as she tore up some of her bread and dunked it into some hummus.

_Oh._

“I’m sorry,” he said reverently. Cassian had never discovered the day of his mother’s death or where she had been buried, not even after he had tortured those males until they had begged for death. Their silence had deprived him of the ability to lay her to rest, and that cruel twist of fate still ate at him every day. If he had been able to find out what had happened to his mother, he’d imagine he’d find himself withdrawn too. He struggled on the anniversary of Rhys’ mother’s death but he tried to keep that to himself, not wanting to take it from Rhys, who was related by blood and who had loved his mother and sister with such unconditional love, the knowledge of it burned acid in his throat. 

Feyre waved away his words. “Don’t be sorry, I was young when our mother died, but Nesta loved her very much and took it very hard when she passed. She blamed our father for our mother’s death. She thought he should have scoured the continent for a cure.” Feyre looked past Cassian for a moment, as if she were thinking. When her eyes cut back to his, they were steeped in memory. “And then of course our father lost our wealth and we were starving. So, I think what with everything that went on — the trauma of it all — Nesta never truly grieved, and I think that haunts her still.”

“They were close?” Cassian asked. He’d never heard Feyre talk about her mother save that first night when they had met. Nesta had not mentioned her once.

Feyre shrugged. “Closer than Elain and I. My mother wasn’t an easy person to know. They both had the same fire, though. My father always loved Nesta best because of it, even when she started to hate him.”

Cassian paused at that. Nesta had always shown nothing but contempt for her father, yet… perhaps this was another card that she had kept close to her chest. So close that it seemed she didn’t care at all. He thought of her father sailing in on those ships — on the _Nesta._ It had been his attempt at doing something for his daughters after he had let them down time and time again. Had he known it was too late to repair things with his eldest?

“It seems cruel,” Cassian said finally, “to have favourites.”

“No, he loved us all in his own way,” Feyre assured him. “But he saw Nesta for what she was and he loved her unequivocally for it. Then he failed us and Nesta’s fierceness turned into this burning hatred. She never forgave him for what he did to us, and…” she trailed off for a second, “I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I think she never forgave me for intervening when I did. I think she believed that if he saw us truly starve he would be forced into action. I never gave her that opportunity.”

Silver lined Feyre’s eyes and Cassian put his food down. He reached across the counter and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. She squeezed his hand in thanks.

“You did what you had to do to keep your family alive. They would be dead because of you.” 

“Yes,” Feyre said softly, “but every action has a cost.” 

As if Feyre no longer wanted to discuss that element of her sister, she changed the subject. “Azriel said that Nesta agreed to train with you.” 

Pride shot through him at the disbelieving tone in Feyre’s voice — at Nesta, for defying the odds stacked against her. He had never thought she would agree to it, but here she was, throwing her fists into his palms whenever he asked it of her.

“Yes,” he admitted, “most days.”

“And you haven’t killed each other? I’m amazed.” Feyre’s grin was teasing. “Is she good?” 

“Very.” He shot her a lopsided smile then. “Although she’s mainly been punching me, so that might be why.”

Feyre didn’t laugh. Instead, her eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline. “That is high praise from you.”

“She could be formidable, if she wanted. And that’s without bringing her power into the equation. I’m just trying to get her weight up. It’s been a slow journey moving her from a liquid diet to a solid one, but she’s eating now… for the most part.”

Feyre sobered at that. “It’s good that she’s not drinking, isn’t it?”

Cassian shrugged. “Yes, although being sober comes with its own challenges. It helps that I cleared the house of alcohol and no-one in Illyria will dare serve her. The true test will be when she comes back for Solstice, assuming you’ll want her back then.”

Feyre set down her knife. “Of course I want her back then. It’s more a matter of whether she’ll want to _come_ , Cassian.”

Cassian didn’t say anything for a moment. He didn’t want to explain that even after a month and half of living with him, Nesta could barely leave the house. He assumed Rhys had told Feyre the sore details but he couldn’t bring it up. It felt too personal, as if he were crossing a line. Even now in his mind’s eye, he saw Nesta’s terrified face as she crumpled to the ground, that mist swirling from her fingertips and up her arms. The way she had clung to him and broken down after had nearly destroyed him. How she had remembered nothing, the trauma cutting so deep that her mind had erased the entire event to protect her. 

How would Nesta possibly manage a room full of all of them at Solstice — with those responsible for banishing her to live with him in what he was sure she saw as a cold and cruel place? She could barely stand to be with him most of the time. The thought hurt, even now. 

Feyre chewed her lip in anguish. She was watching him. “You’re angry at me.”

Cassian frowned. “No.” 

He reached for her hand again, his fingers closing reassuringly around her own.

“You look angry.”

“I’m angry at the situation, not you,” he admitted. “I feel like I’m betraying Nesta, talking with you.”

Feyre nodded tightly, as if to indicate that she understood. Yet she still said, “You look exhausted. Has she been difficult to live with?”

Sighing, Cassian set down his food. He looked at Feyre seriously. “Your sister has been very ill for a long time, more so than any of us could have imagined. She was petrified of her power and it was _consuming_ her, Feyre. Sometimes she retreats so far into herself I can’t reach her at all. Other days she will rage at me. On good days we bicker. I mostly leave her alone.”

He wasn’t being entirely truthful. Nesta met him every morning for breakfast, they trained for a few hours and he would often find her curled up with a book on the couch in the evenings. They would sit in silence then — him going over paperwork and her reading. He would usually spend his entire time trying to stop himself from glancing at her; at the way she would flip back to reread passages she liked, and how she earmarked her favourite pages. In rare circumstances, her lips would tug up at the ends when something amused her. Cassian catalogued it all, drinking in the image of her in his house with him. Even after everything that had happened, every thought and every feeling was still wrapped around her. He gravitated towards her and he wasn’t sure he would ever stop. The thought troubled him more than he could admit. When the time came, he wasn’t sure he could let her go. 

He didn’t say any of that to Feyre. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone. Instead, he tucked the knowledge of it deep inside himself; his dark secret. 

“It’s been over six weeks since she moved to the mountains,” Cassian said instead. “We have two more months until Solstice — a lot can happen in that time.”

He watched Feyre’s expression become pained. He knew that Feyre thought that she had failed her sister. Cassian wanted to tell her that it was an impossible situation — that they had all been dealing with the war in their own ways. Yet… they had neglected Nesta. They hadn’t acted until it was almost too late. He had sensed Nesta’s thoughts enough times to have gleaned that when she had first come to Illyria, she had just wanted everything to end. Her malnourished body was testament to that — not eating had been her form of punishment. It was a habit that he suspected traced back to when she had been starving in the human realm. 

“I wanted to visit her — to explain,” Feyre admitted, “but I thought better of it. I don’t know if she’ll ever want to see me again. And Elain… well, she wants to see Nesta so desperately. I hate telling her no.”

“Perhaps in a few months she’ll come around,” Cassian told her. “Let’s see if she starts replying to the letters first. I think that’s the best indication of where she’s at. The training is helping to channel her power and focus it elsewhere.”

Feyre’s expression tightened. “Do you think the Bone Carver was right… that Nesta’s power is Death?” Feyre asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Cassian admitted. “It feels… more than that. I can’t explain it. I —”

“Cassian!” 

They had been so caught up in their conversation that Cassian hadn’t seen Elain in the garden until she opened the glass doors and stepped inside. She was covered in soil and her clothes were covered in a fine film of rain, yet her face was flushed… almost happy. _Almost_.

“I would hug you,” she explained excitedly to Cassian, “but I need to wash up. Are you leaving soon?”

“Not for another half an hour.” Cassian smiled at the middle Archeron sister, unable to help himself. Elain was Nesta’s opposite — sweet smiles and kind words.

“Oh good,” she breathed, toeing off her gardening boots. “I have some things for you to give to Nesta. I found these hair pins the other day that I just know she’ll love, and Feyre and I visited her apartment to pack up some more of her things.”

“She’ll like that,” Cassian lied. He thought of the last untouched basket of gifts.

Elain’s enthusiasm faltered. “How is she? Does she hate us? Oh Feyre, I knew she’d hate us!” she rambled, her worry rising with every word.

“She’s better than she was,” Cassian assured Elain. “Now go and clean up so I can have a hug before I leave.”

They watched Elain hurry away. Cassian cocked his head at Feyre and she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Nesta’s going to hate it, isn’t she?”

Cassian shrugged. “I think silence from the both of you would be worse.”

“It’s Elain’s birthday in a few weeks,” Feyre admitted. “It would make her day if she could see Nesta. I could winnow her in…”

Cassian couldn’t think of a worse idea, but he just shrugged at his High Lady, even though his gut felt heavy. “Let’s see where we are in a few weeks.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta ventures out into the camp on her own.  
> Roksana and Nesta bond.  
> Cassian and Nesta go flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers, I bring you chapter eleven!  
> I know everybody is upset about the cover - it's not what I expected either - but it won't change the glorious content inside the book which will bring us all of that wonderful Nessian angst that we are so looking forward to. I was irritated to see all the hate thrown SJM's way. Covers are chosen for multitude of reasons and are often determined by bookshops and sales teams. Life is too short to be hating on an author who has got us hooked on two characters AND who is bringing us a whole book about them, so I'm moving on and I hope others are too :)  
> LOTS of Nessian goodness in this chapter. It's my favourite so far and I hope you all like it, too!  
> Please let me know what you think. I so love hearing your feedback and it gives me the motivation to carry on writing (I've written 130,000 words now - YIKES! Lots more chapters to come...)

** Chapter Eleven  
Nesta **

Nesta stood at the foot of the mountain and looked up. 

Grey, craggy stone climbed before her — taunting her — the stone path zig zagging its way up the cliff face for what seemed like miles, until eventually it became obscured by stormy, oppressive clouds. Unsurprisingly, the weather was ominous, yet whilst there was the threat of rain, Windhaven had thankfully remained dry. Over dinner the night before, Cassian had told her that Illyria boasted the best skies in the whole of Prythian but Nesta had yet to see it. In the month she had been here, she’d mostly seen angry clouds, sleet, snow and an unrivalled sort of rain which was often nothing short of a downpour. 

Scouring the path ahead of her, Nesta was pleased to find that there was no shadowed outline of training leathers or the sharp curving sweep of wings against the stone. After their practice yesterday, Cassian had flown Nesta to this exact spot and told her that Illyrians were only faced with running up the mountain once a month, so most of the time it was devoid of sweating, insufferable males. He had said it with a glint in his eye but she hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t been able to laugh in a very long time. Sometimes she wondered if she ever would again. 

Cassian hadn’t prodded and poked her for a reaction like he would have a month ago. Nesta had an inkling that he was starting to understand her moods with that uncanny ability of his to read people and had decided to leave her well enough alone. Usually the knowledge that he could analyse her so well would have left her furious, but Nesta was surprised to find herself relieved; it was as if the noose had been pried a little looser from around her neck. 

Nesta always found the anniversary of her mother’s death tough, but this year was harder than normal; sometimes Nesta felt as if a weight was pulling her down with such force that she might just disappear entirely. Cassian’s calm presence rather than his cocky teasing or sharp counter-attacks was like a balm. Nesta didn’t have to fight an internal battle to pretend to the outside world that she had it together. That usually ended in her inability to breathe, her chest so tight and her heart racing so fiercely she thought she might be sick with it. Instead, in their brief moments together, Cassian’s solid presence brought a lulling sort of reprieve that was almost like the trance she experienced before she succumbed to sleep; the steady reassuring beat of her heart a partner to the slow, deep breaths that sounded like the distant sea crashing against rocks.

Cassian had left straight after breakfast that morning. He had been solemn and unusually quiet, a partner to her own mood. He had eaten quickly before telling her he would be back late. He hadn’t bothered to ask her if she had any letters for her sisters or if she wanted anything brought back for her. She didn’t and she certainly didn’t want to write to Feyre. Nesta had read all of her sisters letters before braving to open the log burner door in order to watch them burn. It hurt to hear from them both… to learn of their days as they moved on without her. To know that they had given up on her so easily, even as they apologised and apologised for sending her away.

With Cassian absent, Nesta’s morning had been thrown askew. In the three weeks they had been training, Nesta had come to depend on pummelling her fists into Cassian’s raised hands. Cassian did not give her any mercy: the sessions were so intense that afterwards Nesta felt as if she had been wrung out and left to dry. And whilst fighting for breath was something that Nesta usually ran away from, she had come to crave for the burn in her lungs as she gasped for air, willing her body to persist and fight rather than crash and lie defeated as he demanded more from her.

She was too tired to hate herself for liking the training, especially as it did what Cassian had promised: it quieted that power of hers. After their sessions Nesta no longer felt claws scrambling amongst her insides as that power clambered for release. Instead, it sat and waited, calm and settled… until their next session, at least.

So after breakfast that morning, Nesta had felt that power turn over in her stomach; a beast rising from the dark. It lurked there with bated breath, until it started to slither into her veins, mingling with her blood as it rushed down her arms and to her fingertips. In vain, Nesta had tried to read but that energy had built until it thrummed relentlessly beneath her skin like a silent war drum, desperate to escape.

In a bid to calm it, Nesta had paced the living room, wearing a track into the carpet, but it had done no good. In the end, Nesta had snarled at her futile attempt to wear it out and had stomped into her bedroom, slamming her bedroom door with such force the windows had rattled.

It had taken her half an hour to get the courage to step outside, but she had done it. She had known where to walk; Cassian had pointed out the route whilst they had flown down from the mountain the day before. The majority of it took Nesta through the tall pine trees away from the sounds of the camp, and with her fur headband planted firmly over her ears, Nesta had managed to zone out the muffled crunch of twigs and branches as they snapped underfoot.

Now, as she stared up from the bottom of the mountain, Nesta was aware of just how punishing the climb would be. And although Nesta had only ever run when her life was on the line, there was something about the promise of suffering which made her power sing…

More and more Nesta found herself thinking back to that day in the library, when Feyre had desperately pulled her along through the stacks as they ran away from those laughing Ravens. Nesta had slowed Feyre down, her body unused to the burn in her lungs, her legs constricted by her heavy skirts. She had been a liability, but Feyre had not left her behind. Her sister had not even considered it. It was an act of kindness that Nesta knew she did not deserve. That experience, coupled with the Cauldron and the war, had been enough to teach Nesta that you were never truly safe. There was always another threat looming around the corner and now she was Fae… well her life was infinite. There would be even more moments where Nesta would have to rely on her body to protect her and to carry her to safety. She couldn’t rely on anybody else. She wouldn’t.

It was one of the reasons why she let Cassian train her at the top of the mountain each day. She may be weak now, but Nesta intended to be strong. She would fight her own battles if she had to. Life was not like one of those romantic novels she liked to read; nobody was going to save her but herself and under no circumstances would she allow herself to be a damsel.

So Nesta set her chin in determination and focussed her attention back to the path ahead of her. She was going to do this. And yet, the path seemed to taunt her and in her head, that cold, whispering voice of doubt chanted: y _ou can’t, you can’t, you can’t._

Clenching her fists, Nesta let her nails bite half moons into her skin until the voice quieted. Then she started to run.  
  


* * *

  
Nesta had only lasted five minutes before she had bent over and upended her breakfast onto the crystalline rock. Her thighs and calves had burned with the effort as she followed the brutal path as it climbed higher and higher. She refused to give up, only stopping when she had to. Her stomach had lurched time after time, but in the end it was so empty she couldn’t even vomit. Nesta had ignored how her lungs had desperately cried out for more air, and only when her knees buckled, desperate for her to rest did she stop. 

When she looked back down at the path, Nesta saw that she had barely made a groove in the ascent but she didn’t care. As she stared down at the green, feathered triangles of the tops of the pine trees, Nesta vowed that she would come back tomorrow, and the day after that — as long as it took for her to make it to the top. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do, anyway.

Later, when Nesta had slipped into a steaming hot bath — her body hurt too much to stand under the spout — her feet had stung. Burst blisters lined the backs of her heels and the tops of her toes where her shoes had rubbed them raw. Vowing to wrap them later, Nesta had lain back in the tub until the water had turned tepid, unable to coax her aching limbs to move. Only when she heard the click of the back door hailing Mas’s arrival, did she haul herself out of the large porcelain tub and towel herself dry. 

Nesta spent the rest of the afternoon reading — well, trying to read. Knowing Cassian was in Velaris played on her mind. No doubt he was reporting back to Feyre, divulging all of the ‘progress’ she had made; like she was a puppet in their game of redemption. As the afternoon went on, she felt her anger rear its ugly head until she was so consumed with it she had to take slow, shuddering breaths to calm herself down. Eventually, it worked and the ethereal mist at her fingertips vanished into thin air. It didn't stop her hands from thrumming with an energy that had Nesta’s stomach in shreds.

She was just about to hurl her book across the room when she spotted a movement in the corner of her eye. Nesta had been in too much of a state to have noticed the weight of a presence behind her; the shadow of small pointed wings across the couch and a mass of tangled hair in her peripheral vision.

Roksana came to the house with Mas everyday, but she was not how young children should be. There was no laughter and joy as she played inside. Instead, Roksana was a quiet, ghostly presence who would often find somewhere to hide after Mas had sat her down for lunch at the kitchen table. Nesta knew a wounded animal when she saw one so she left the orphan well alone. It was an unintentional tactic that had worked in striking Roksana’s attention. At first, Nesta had spotted dark eyes watching her from the pantry as she went to retrieve some chocolate. Then, a few days later, the scuffled sounds of feet moving across the carpet in Cassian’s room. Nesta knew that Mas would be beside herself if she discovered that Roksana was hiding beneath the General’s bed, but Nesta had found it amusing. Cassian always left his bedroom door ajar and whilst Nesta had never ventured inside of it, she had spotted midnight blue sheets and a bed that rivalled hers in size — the perfect hiding place for a scared, little girl. In the past week, Roksana had moved from that sanctuary to beneath the couch. Nesta read in her usual spot in the corner most days and she made a point of pretending that Roksana wasn’t there. It was their little game and Nesta would not be the first to end it, even when she heard those little wings rustling as they scraped against the underside of the cushions, the orphan moving on her stomach to inch that little bit closer.

And now, Roksana had stepped out of her hiding place. It was a hugely vulnerable move and one Nesta wouldn’t take lightly.

It took an effort to mould her voice into something soft, but she managed it. 

“There aren’t any pictures in this I’m afraid,” Nesta murmured quietly, not looking up from her book. “Perhaps I should find something different.”

Slowly, so as not to startle the little girl, Nesta stood from the couch and walked over to the bookshelves. She slid a heavy book of maps out from the middle shelf, and making sure not to acknowledge Roksana, she sat back down amongst the cushions. 

The pages were made of unusually thick parchment, the paper almost like a cushion against the pads of her fingertips. The book smelt wonderful — of vanilla and history — and Nesta poured over the pages of Prythian, until she found the human realm and the dotted black line that marked the wall. She ghosted the line with her fingertips, as if the movement would erase the ink, before she moved downwards until her finger was hovering over where their ramshackle stone cottage would have stood.

A lump formed in Nesta’s throat but she managed to wrestle it back down, and then the words poured forth.

Mas had found them in the living room an hour later, Nesta’s voice hoarse from talking. She did not know when she had last spoke so much — if she ever had. Her throat was scratchy and she longed for water, but she could not stop. She had shown Roksana the wall and the human lands. She had told her how her sister had travelled across the wall to save Prythian; how Nesta had been turned Fae and how she had fought in the war, helping the Illyrians to defeat the King of Hybern. She pointed out the Night Court and Velaris. She told Roksana of the City of Starlight; of the rainbow quarter and its pastel coloured buildings; of the river Sidra which wound it’s way up all the way up to the Illyrian Mountains — to Windhaven.

When Nesta had finally looked up, Roksana was on the couch beside her, her little legs tucked underneath her. The bones of her wings were digging into Nesta’s arm but she had barely noticed it, nor had she acknowledged the warmth of another body against her own. She only noticed the words that had escaped her; the soft fur of the pages beneath her fingertips; the weight that lifted a little from her chest the more she spoke.

“You didn’t have to entertain her,” Mas told Nesta, as she pulled on Roksana’s coat as she readied them to leave.

“I wanted to,” Nesta replied.

It was the truth. Dark, hollow eyes met Nesta’s as Mas zipped up Roskana’s woollen coat. They were a mirror to her own, yet far, far worse. Nobody so young should look so lost... so broken. Roksana did not say goodbye as she left with Mas, she merely remained mute, her palm held firmly by the housekeeper as she was led her out into the cold blue of dusk. 

And as Nesta watched the girls retreating back — her small, perfect wings bobbing behind her — Nesta realised that whilst she was an orphan too, she had never known what it was like to be truly alone.  
  


* * *

  
Cassian didn’t come back until well after dark. 

Like it always did, the house seemed to hum to life as soon as he rested his palm against the door. The room always refocussed when Cassian was in it, as if his broad frame became the centre. And that was with his wings pulled in tight… More than once, Nesta had wondered how far his wings could stretch. She had a feeling that if he strained, they would take up the entire kitchen. The thought made her a bit breathless.

“Hello.”

That deep, smooth voice had Nesta looking up from her book. “Hello.”

There was a faint smell of alcohol on him, mingling with pine and that fresh, untamed air that Nesta had only encountered since being in Illyria. He smelt of musk, too. Not the clawing type of musk that never seemed to leave you. No, with Cassian you only got a hint of it. It was the sort of smell that made you crave for more, until you were so close your nose was pressed against the warm, bare stretch of neck…

“I thought you’d be in bed.”

Nesta slammed up her icy wall to sever her thoughts. She made herself shrug as if she hadn’t a care in the world.  “I wasn’t tired. There’s food in the kitchen, if you want it.”

Cassian’s brows rose. “You cooked?”

If Nesta were like anyone else, she might have confessed that she had tried to cook but her stew had only come out bland. It hadn’t had any of the depth that was found in Illyrian food, which was full of flavours that burst on your tongue. But Nesta wasn’t like everyone else, so she only clipped, “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Cassian smiled that infuriating, crooked smile that made his eyes shine. His hair was scraped back into the messy, casual bun that Nesta had secretly come to favour. It made him seem more real. Cassian was all chiselled muscle and handsome, rugged looks which, despite his charming smiles and easy personality, had Nesta wanting to shatter things.

“I ate already,” he confessed. 

Shrugging indifferently, Nesta dragged her gaze back to her book. He was still eyeing her, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up.

“Do you want to come flying? It’s a good night for it.”

His question was not what she had been expecting. She had expected him to talk about her sisters, a subject she categorically did not want to speak about. Nesta did not want to think of them back in Velaris without her or even how she was here, an outcast. She did not want to think about her mother and how Nesta still missed her, even though she wasn’t sure her mother ever loved her like Nesta had idolised her. What she did want was to get out of these four walls and feel the fresh bracing air on her face. Mostly she just wanted to stop thinking. And recently that was all she found herself doing… thinking. Over analysing and replaying, over and over until it drove her mad. Had Cassian known that? Or did he just feel the wind calling to him and think she might need it to?

The anger that had been building against him all day plummeted until it was nothing but a faint pressure beneath her skin.

Nesta closed her book. 

“Ok,” she told him. “I’ll come flying with you.”  
  


* * *

  
If Cassian had been surprised when she had agreed to come out with him, he hadn’t let it show. Instead they stepped out of the house in silence. The winter chill clung to the evening and the sky… Nesta stilled. The moon was bigger than she had ever seen it — a huge, translucent presence in the dark. And the stars... they _shone_ like diamonds; a moving tapestry against the midnight blue. 

“It’s even better when you’re in the thick of it,” Cassian promised. He was staring at her rather than the sky, a lopsided smile on his face.  


Nesta opened her mouth to say something but then just looked up again, unable to believe the unrivalled beauty of the sky before her. 

“Where are you going?”

A rough, deep voice came from their right, and Nesta’s head snapped round to see a tall, broad-shouldered figure stalking towards them. Even in the dark, her fae eyes easily made out the features of an Illyrian that she faintly recognised. Filtering through her memories, Nesta waited until she could place him. It didn't take long; it was the camp lord that had called her a witch when they had visited the war camp over a year ago. 

Lifting her chin in steely determination, Nesta stared down the male as he approached. 

Beside her, Cassian stiffened. 

“Last time I checked, I didn’t have to run my movements past you, Devlon,” Cassian called out. His brief stillness had been replaced with casual indifference in such an even transition that Nesta nearly questioned whether she had felt Cassian tense in the first place.

The cold, black eyes of the older Illyrian slid to Nesta and she held back a shudder. Even though she was the shortest of the three of them, she willed everything in her to look down her nose at him.

“How long is the witch staying with you?”

“Lady Nesta will be staying with me for the foreseeable future,” Cassian answered lightly, his voice wholly unaffected by the disdain in the camp leader’s tone. “And I would speak to her with more respect, given that she is the reason you are alive. Need I remind you that she killed the King of Hybern?”

Devlon’s lip curled as he looked Nesta up and down. She did not flinch or stiffen, she just continued to stare at him in that unnerving way of hers that had most males scarpering. 

Sneering, Devlon looked back to Cassian. He may be tall, but Cassian was taller, and Nesta did not miss the way that the camp lord had to tilt his neck to level his gaze with the General. “She’s dangerous,” he conceded finally.

Cassian’s eyes glinted in the dark. They did not hold the playfulness he reserved for his friends. Instead they were hard and promised bloodshed as he opened his mouth to respond - 

“Yes, I am dangerous,” Nesta cut in coldly. “I’d be on your guard, if I were you.”

A flicker of delight sparked in her stomach. Nesta nearly cut a glance to Cassian, but she caught herself at the last second. 

She summoned all of her energy into looking at the camp lord with unbridled disdain instead.  It wasn’t very hard.

“Are you going to let your - ”

Devlon had started to sneer but Cassian’s growl cut him off. The warning was low in his throat, the sound not unlike that of a feral animal. The primal sound stirred something deep inside of Nesta, and before she had time to even _think_ her fingertips crackled in the dark. Instinctively, as if it were as natural as breathing, Nesta flicked her fingers. Her power flew across the space between her and the camp lord, the tendrils moving from mist to sparks in one fluid movement; like a licking fire spitting embers. They stopped inches in front of Devlon’s face and as if she had willed it, they sizzled, disappearing with a harsh snap that cracked through the camp. 

Devlon jerked his head backwards, recoiling so sharply it were as if she had struck him clean in the face. 

His pale face twisted in rage, but Nesta spoke before he could open his mouth.  “I don’t belong to anyone,” she said haughtily. “And I certainly don’t take orders from males like you.” 

She turned to Cassian. The movement was slow and moderated, as if a crown were balanced on her head. “Shall we go?”

It was a brutal and disrespectful dismissal, but Nesta never had been one for manners and she didn’t care to start now.

Cassian had waited until they were high in the air before he started to shake. She craned her neck to peer up into his face, her hands grasping at his leathers as she was jolted around in his arms.

“Stop it, you’re going to drop me,” she snapped. 

Her words didn’t work. Cassian broke into a booming laugh, the sound merging with the steady beat of his wings.

Nesta stared at him in bewilderment.

“That was amazing,” he gasped finally as his laughter subsided. “How did you do that — with your power? I thought he was going to shit himself.”

Despite herself, Nesta found her lips tugging upwards. It was the closest she had come to smiling in a long time. The feeling was foreign, the unused muscles in her cheek twitching. “I don’t know, it just happened.”

Cassian grinned down at her. “Well, I hope to the Mother it happens again.” 

Nesta’s snort was soft. “It probably will if he continues to behave like that. Does he always talk to you that way?”

Cassian’s eyes were still sparkling. “Sweetheart, that was positively pleasant in comparison to the other camp lords.”

“And you allow it… for him to talk to you like that? As General of the Illyrian armies?”

Cassian’s eyes flicked back to the skies as he changed course, cutting west. When they were back on route, he told her, “If I had been born into any other war camp, I would not be where I am now. Devlon is fairer than most, so I let him talk to me like I'm dirt from time to time. I’ve heard far worse, Nesta. I’ve developed a thick skin over the years.”

Nesta frowned at Cassian's lack of fire — at his acceptance. “You think you deserve to be treated that way?” she asked indignantly. “You think that because you were born out of wedlock you aren’t worthy of defending yourself?”

Hazel eyes locked with hers for the briefest of moments. He was obviously surprised by her outburst. 

“I’ve learnt what battles are worth fighting,” Cassian corrected. 

He glanced back down at her again. He sighed when he saw her expression of disbelief, as if he knew that she was not going to rest until she had a worthy explanation. 

“When I was eight years old I was thrown into that camp to see whether me — a bastard born nobody — would live or survive,” Cassian started after a long pause. “Devlon trained me, and when he thought I was a worthy warrior, he was the one to award me my siphons. Azriel and I are the only bastards who have ever been granted a siphon, and we are the only Illyrian’s in Illyria’s long history to have been granted seven of them. We earned every damned one of them in the Blood Rite with Rhys, but… another camp lord wouldn’t have given them to us. So, I owe Devlon for that. Without these,” he lifted his hands to show the ruby jewels atop them, “I would be the lowest rank soldier. I’d have my own tent and supplies… but it would have been a cruel life to have had so much power and to be unable to use it. I’m thankful every day for that acceptance, so I let him push me around a little.” 

Cassian smiled down at her then, but Nesta noted that the sparkle in his eyes had faded and in its place… that was sadness. It was an expression Nesta had often seen on his face when he spoke of his people. 

“He knows I could kill him if I wanted,” Cassian finished, as if that made it better. 

It didn’t. Nesta wanted to ask him about being raised in the camp as a child with nothing and no-one. She wanted to ask what it had felt like to be ripped from his mother — to go from being loved to having nobody at all — but she couldn’t speak. Her throat felt tight and her skin had flushed hot and cold at the same time. In her mind’s eye, Nesta could see a young boy curled up in a weathered tent with barely enough clothing to keep him warm. 

The thought made her want to explode with silver rage and she had to scramble to keep it under control, so she merely nodded to indicate she had heard him and turned her gaze to the skies. She did not press him further. She had an inkling that he didn’t want to talk about it, anyway. It would seem that she too was learning to read his moods. 

“I think he’s a savage brute,” Nesta spat eventually, glaring at the scenery with such intent she felt like she could rend the sky in two.

Cassian’s low chuckle rumbled through her. “Is that because he called you a witch?”

Nesta’s lips twitched again despite her anger, and she wondered how this was happening, that she was wearing a ghost of a smile so soon after her last. “No, I rather liked that,” she confessed.

This time Cassian’s laughter was pure delight — it was untamed and wild and… lovely. “I thought you might, sweetheart.”  
  


* * *

  
They flew in silence after that. Nesta had no idea how long they were in the air; she suspected half an hour or so, but she didn’t care. The night sky was breathtaking, the moon larger than life, its surface the colour of wheat against the otherwise blue carpet. Nesta wondered if anybody looking up would see their silhouette as they tracked their way through the air, the moon their glowing, golden backdrop. 

Eventually, Cassian started a slow descent, his wings cast out wide as he coasted on the breeze. Beneath them, the mountain rock gave way to steep, roughly hewn platforms, like giant, uneven steps which staggered down, down, down until the mountain rock disappeared into the tops of the pine trees. And through the middle of the cliff face was running water. It cascaded from the top of the snow-capped mountain, spilling over the stone and into the various pools on each platform, like a living, breathing carpet runner draped over a staircase. 

Cassian landed them on a platform two-thirds up the mountain and set her down. The air shifted and changed around them as Cassian dropped his shield, but the wind was gentle, and whilst the weather was crisp, it was nothing her fur-lined clothing didn’t protect her from. 

But none of that truly registered with her as she looked out at what had to be an unrivalled view of Illyria. For miles and miles around them, the sky stretched out like an untouched canvas, and the stars… the stars were _alive_. If Nesta had thought them beautiful in Windhaven, now they were… she couldn’t even find the words. They were stunning, arresting, _phenomenal,_ and as she grasped at word after insufficient word she truly understood why the Night Court was known for their night skies, because she had never seen anything in her life that made her feel so awake.

“Don’t make me have to dive for you,” Cassian warned, snapping Nesta out of her reverie. It was as abrupt as a knife loosing a cord.

Looking down at the steep drop to the next plateau of rock, Nesta tried not to waver. Her toes were dangerously close to the ledge, as if her feet had moved without her willing them as they itched to get closer to the view, like an eager child pressing their nose up against the window of a sweet shop. 

Her cheeks burned and she hastily started to rebuild that wall around her mind, her emotions, starting from the bottom up, brick by brick —

Nesta tensed as Cassian stepped beside her. He was a hair-breadth away and she could feel the distracting heat of him. The warmth curled around her and through her clothing, so much so that she had to stop what she was doing just to hold back the shudder that wanted to wrestle its way through her. She could feel the weight of his gaze pressing into her like a relentless brand until she turned to him. 

Even against the endless landscape, Cassian’s broad figure and large wings filled the edges of her periphery. He was wearing an expression she couldn’t quite place but his eyes … they bore into hers, all-seeing. 

It irked her. It made her feel exposed.

“What?” she bit out.

Cassian shook his head. “Nothing.” She raised her eyebrows at him, imploring, “It’s just… I’ve never seen you look like that. Like you’re in awe.”

Nesta hated the pink that burned through her cheeks, even as she mustered every bit of ice into her tone. “Is this not something one should be in awe of?”

Cassian didn’t rise to her bait, instead he motioned for her to follow him as he walked towards the rock pool. To its side was a haphazard of smaller rocks piled on top of one another. They leaned out over the pool like one-half of a bridge — a natural suspension — and what Nesta suspected, was an ideal platform for gazing out at the panorama.

“I’d think you had a heart made of stone if you didn’t like this view,” Cassian called over his shoulder as she followed him begrudgingly, reluctant to turn her back on the landscape before them. And then, with an ease that told Nesta he must fly here a lot, Cassian climbed the rocks until he was sitting atop the highest plateau. He leant over the side to offer her assistance as she tried her best _not_ to stumble, but she ignored his outstretched hand, remaining stubbornly resolute until she was sitting beside him. 

Swinging her weary legs over the ledge, Nesta looked down at the water that rushed beneath their feet before tumbling over the cliff ledge. Her legs still burned from her earlier run but she welcomed the ache — and the opportunity to engage in some wordplay. She’d been out of sorts the past few days — in the way that the anniversary of her mother’s death always did for her — but now she was itching to bicker.

“You don’t think I have a heart made out of stone?”

It was a question designed to set them on a dangerous path, but Cassian only cocked his head at her, ruminative for a short while. Nesta immediately regretted asking the question. It unnerved her the way that he looked at her, like she was a puzzle he was figuring out how to solve. 

It laid her bare. 

Eventually, Cassian replied, “I think you try to make people believe that, but no, I don’t think you have a heart made out of stone. I think you bear the burden of feeling too much and you try to protect yourself from it.”

Too close to home. He had hit too close to home with that statement and annoyance rose in her. Why couldn’t he just mock or provoke her? He hadn’t even called her _sweetheart._

Snorting angrily, Nesta made her voice drip with sarcasm, “What an _excellent_ hypothesis.”

Cassian levelled her with another intense gaze that seemed to look right into the very fabric of her being. “Am I wrong, Nesta?”

Nesta couldn’t and wouldn’t respond to that. The words would have lodged themselves in her throat anyhow, panic fisting around them tight before she would open her mouth. So, she said instead, “I’ve never seen stars like this in Velaris.”

To Cassian’s credit, he did not push her or comment on the change in subject. Instead, he upturned his face to the sky and rested back on his hands, bathing himself in the glow of the moon and the shine of the stars. “Only in Illyria do you get skies like this. They are an unparalleled beauty.”

Nesta didn’t disagree. In fact, for the first time in her life, she could think of no better word to describe the view in front of her. _Unparalleled._

They stared at the view for a long time in silence. It wasn’t a fraught silence, which was often the case when people were around her, but loose, as if Cassian were nothing but comfortable. Nesta stared and stared, entranced at how the stars played with the night sky. Dark midnight blue gave way to the deepest of indigos… which merged with a mesmerising steel-blue that faded into the milky brilliance of powdery white dust. And through it all those stars burned and burned and burned — finally, a fire to match her own.

Nesta heard a rustle behind her and she turned to see Cassian stretching his wings across the stone behind her. 

His lips twitched in apology. “It feels good to stretch them out,” he explained, but there was something in his expression that seemed… pained and in her stomach she felt an uncomfortable ache of pine and musk.

Nesta spoke before she could check herself. “They’re hurting you?”

“They ache sometimes, usually when it’s been raining,” Cassian admitted, lifting his wings briefly for emphasis.

Nesta frowned. “It didn’t rain today.”

“It did in Velaris.”

_Good,_ Nesta thought bitterly, holding back a snort. She hoped the rain had made every single one of that Inner Circle as miserable as she felt every day. And yet, she realised she didn’t feel miserable sitting here. Throughout all of her life she’d been trapped — imprisoned by societal expectations, by her gender, by starvation, by anger and grief, by the Cauldron — but here, in the wide expanse she was unencumbered. Her power felt it too. It no longer clawed at her skin, desperate for release. Instead it lay idle… soothed. 

Nesta waited with bated breath for Cassian to bring up her sister but he didn’t.

Instead, he pointed upwards. “You see those twin stars?”

She refrained from rolling her eyes. Nesta had felt his delight whenever she let her guard down enough to appear playful and she wasn’t about to give him that pleasure now.

“There are a lot of stars in the sky,” she said dryly, not saying the word _idiot_ but leaving it heavily implied. 

Cassian’s grumble rolled through her as he reached out. She swatted at him but he ignored her, lifting her chin slightly to the right with a large, scar-flecked finger. 

“You see that group of stars that are curved like a saber?”

“The Illyrian’s named the constellations after weapons,” Nesta deadpanned. “How imaginative.” 

Cassian snickered in her ear. 

“It’s all we have, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Just _look_ and stop being a pain in my ass.” 

Nesta would have shot daggers at him if it wasn’t for the finger still on her chin. She batted at him again and this time he relented, dropping his hand. He didn’t move away though. Nesta narrowed her eyes and tried to ignore the heady, distracting heat of him. She searched until she found what he was speaking of; a cluster of stars that when joined together, conceived the line of a saber sword all the way from the circle of the hilt to the curve of the single-edged blade. 

In the uncanny way that Cassian had of reading her — no doubt honed from years of scrutinising and analysing his enemies — he seemed to know when she had found it. “Now look above the constellation. There are a pair of stars close together. One is golden, the other blue.”

Nesta cast her eyes upwards and there they were. Now she had seen them, they seemed to lord over the sky, even though they were by no means the largest or brightest against the moving, sparkling canvas.

“They are binary stars,” Cassian informed her. “In Illyrian mythology they represent the Goddess Oya and the God Enalius.” He pointed in turn to the blue and the yellow. “Binary stars only orbit one another and are equals — _pareho_. For Illyrian’s pareho are _Albireo_ — beloved.”

Nesta tried not to shiver as Cassian spoke Illyrian. There was something about the way his voice changed when he spoke his native language; it was the low inflection as the words rolled off his tongue. 

“What would happen if binary stars went out of orbit?” she asked curiously. 

“They would collide with other stars and create new planets. Enalius is the God of War, he would destroy and protect, whilst Oya would breathe new life. She is the Goddess of Rebirth.”

Nesta nodded, remembering what she had gleaned from the poetry off his bookshelf. “I just finished _Heroicis,”_ she admitted. 

Cassian rustled his wings and Nesta felt the air shift behind her. “I saw.” A hesitant pause. “Did you enjoy it?”

“It… was very beautiful,” she confessed, staring resolutely at the stars and not at him. “I don't think I’ve ever read anything like it before.”

She dared to look at him when he remained silent beside her. His mouth was parted in what she thought was surprise, but he promptly closed it. He stared and then blinked. The action was slow… purposeful. “Pareho compliment the other. They are two halves made whole. Without the other they are incomplete. They are still powerful… but together they are indestructible.”

Cassian moved on then, pointing out other constellations and the Northern Cross — the milky way shaped like the letter X; an Illyrian, Cassian informed her, the arms representative of their wings and their claim to the skies. 

Only when she stifled a yawn did he stop.

“You’re tired.”

“A little.” 

In truth, she was exhausted. Even sitting, the muscles in her legs _hurt_ and she longed to rub in the endless supply of salve Cassian had made a habit of placing in her room that would smooth away the pain. 

She thought then — about telling him that she had gone running — but stopped herself. Since when had she ever felt the urge to share her day with him, especially when he had most likely been gossiping about her to her sister? That bitterness kindled inside of her again and she swallowed thickly, willing it away. She didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to _think._

Cassian got to his feet, and when he held his hand out to her this time, she took it without thinking. His palm was warm and steady as she stood, his large fingers closing around her smaller ones. “You can come with me again, if you’d like. There are more views like this — even better ones, actually — a little further out.”

Nesta couldn’t believe that any view would be better than this one, but she didn’t say so. Instead she just nodded in silent agreement, because this reprieve had got her out of her head. And maybe… maybe that was just what she needed. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta and Cassian fly to a desolate camp to train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Sunday, another chapter...
> 
> Thank you for all of the comments, I’m just about to read through them again and get back to you all but honestly, you guys just leave the best feedback. To know you are enjoying the fic so much brings me such unbridled joy, so THANK YOU. Lockdown gifted me back my ability and desire to write and with it all of you ☺️
> 
> Let me know what you think of the next chapter! This is a little on the short side compared to the others but it’s necessary for the overall plot.

**Chapter Twelve  
Cassian**

Illyria was dark and gloomy as Cassian passed through the skies a week later with Nesta in his arms. It was early morning and he was already in a bad mood. It clung to him as ominously as the grey clouds that loomed overhead, waiting to open their linings and piss down on them.

Cassian was hungover, so he supposed his bad mood was self-inflicted. It had been Azriel’s birthday the night prior and his brother — never one for going out at the best of times — had relented to a low key dinner and a game of cards. As usual, they had played into the early hours, and after consuming a fair amount of whisky, Cassian had barely gotten any shuteye before Rhys had winnowed him back to Windhaven at first light.

Mor had been unable to join them, her new role dictating that she be away striking alliances. He suspected that Mor had timed her departure purposefully to give Azriel the space he would never ask for, and Cassian had been quietly grateful for it. The last thing Azriel needed was to be brooding on a day that should be celebratory. Yet, like him, Cassian knew that Azriel had felt Mor’s absence keenly. The four of them had always made a point of spending their birthdays together unless it truly couldn’t be helped. Throughout dinner, Cassian had pretended not to notice his brother sneak the odd look at the empty chair where Mor usually sat. It had hit home then — that Mor’s absence indicated a fork in the road and … well, that fork loomed ahead of him, its future undetermined. The bricks were being laid one by one as his life unfolded. The sensation felt both freeing and sad at the same time.

As rugged terrain interspersed with forest green gave way to craggy mountains, Cassian banked slightly to the right, and at the sight of the familiar peak — the other reason for his bad mood — he started their descent.

Landing on the flat stretch of mountain pass, Cassian cast a look around. The snowdrifts were always higher here than in Windhaven, but from what he could tell it hadn’t snowed for well over a week. Thankfully that meant the deceptively sparkling white didn’t reach past Nesta’s ankle-high boots as he set her down on the ground. He wasn’t in the frame of mind for any verbal sparring this morning.

“What is this place?” Nesta breathed, her eyes wide as she took in the crumbling, burnt shells of the buildings, and the abandoned scraps of canvas that fluttered in the breeze around the rest of the debris.

The waste ground was just as Cassian had left it all of those years ago, when he had tortured and torn those males apart with his brothers at his side. He didn’t come here often, but when he did… it was because he needed the reminder — of what happened to females under the rule of males, when they could not defend themselves and fight back. It was also a reminder of what he was capable of; the ease at which he had tortured and taken life.And even though Cassian came here willingly, the knowledge of what had happened to his mother here left him feeling raw and on edge. Coupled with his hangover, he knew it made him unpleasant company. He wondered if Nesta could sense it… if that was why she hadn’t protested when he told her they weren’t training at their usual spot on the mountain that morning before he had leapt into the skies.

Not ready to delve into that part of his history, Cassian stalked towards the far point of the mountain pass, where the land widened and then narrowed into the shape of a spearhead — the defining feature which had once given the camp its name. The shape provided a huge clearing. Tall conifer trees lined the perimeter and the roughly hewn rock face was covered in green shrubs that sprouted over every available inch, their leaves covered in a light dusting of snow.

With a flare of his siphons, Cassian magicked an archery target into existence. He placed it roughly twenty feet away from the both the tip of the clearing and point where they stood next to a waist-high crystalline boulder.

He hopped onto the rock and then looked down at Nesta. She was staring up at him tight lipped. The defiance that already consumed her expression told him that this morning wasn’t going to be easy. After their star-gazing, Cassian had hoped something had shifted between them, but in the week since, Nesta’s mood had only become more unpredictable. Her short fuse meant that she would flit between what he would dare to call banter - something that thrilled him to his very core - to a fierce temper that left him feeling like he’d been beaten until he was bloody and bruised. From the current look on her face, Cassian guessed he might be about to get the latter.

Despite the unveiled threat he could see in her eyes, Cassian waved loosely at the target. “Hit it,” he ordered.

Nesta crossed her arms tightly across her chest — a bad sign. “With what?”

“With your power,” he said simply, plucking an apple from his tunic pocket and shining it against his leg.

Cassian hadn’t thought it possible for Nesta’s expression to turn stonier, but somehow she willed it into existence. “No.”

“Blasting it into the sky is a temporary measure,” he told her. “This deserted camp is as good a time as any to practice controlling it. I’ve seen you use it on Devlon, so we know you can do it.”

Just the memory of Nesta whipping Devlon in the face with those silver flames had Cassian’s blood heating. Whilst it had been a joy watching the camp lord’s contort with fury, what had impressed Cassian the most was Nesta’s control. Whenever she had used her power before, it had controlled her rather than the other way around. Even as they trained, when Nesta would blast silver into the sky, the ferocity with which it poured forth always threw her backwards as she tried to wrangle it into submission. Yet with Devlon, Nesta hadn’t moved an inch as she had willed her silver rope of embers to snap just inches from his face. Cassian had resisted the urge to drop to his knees and beg her to marry him then, because he knew he’d never find anyone who thrilled him to the very core like she did.

“I thought we were going to spar,” Nesta bit out, tucking her arms even further across her chest.

Cassian ignored the way the movement highlighted the shape of her breasts through the leather and made himself stare right back at her. He wouldn’t back down on this and he wasn’t in the mood to argue. The flight here had been long and after only a few hours of sleep he felt both hungry and nauseous at the same time.

“We can spar after you try to hit the target,” he told Nesta over a mouthful of apple.

Cassian watched Nesta stare across to the wooden easel, her fists curling and uncurling at her side. He wondered if she were contemplating throttling him. Half of him hoped she did, he could do with some hand-to-hand combat, especially if it meant rolling around in the dirt with Nesta.

A defiant frown creased between Nesta’s eyebrow. “No.”

Losing his patience — something that was always on a particularly short leash when he had drunk too much the night prior — Cassian found himself growling between clenched teeth, “Nesta stop being difficult, and try and hit the fucking target.”

The rage that rolled off of the female before him promised blood as Nesta snapped her head to glare at him. Cassian rarely swore at her, usually opting for teasing and taunting rather than cuss words. Satisfaction thrummed through him for having surprised her… at the mist that seeped briefly at her fingertips. It was always so tricky to fork another crack in that mask of hers and every time he managed it, he felt triumphant because it meant that she was feeling something, and something was better than nothing.

“I can’t just summon it as I please, General,” Nesta spat.

Cassian cocked his head at her, rising to the challenge. “Would you like me to rile you even more, sweetheart?” he goaded. “Perhaps that will help.”

“You’re in a foul mood,” she snapped. “You have been since breakfast and your bath this morning has done nothing to get rid of the horrible smell of you.”

Cassian grinned at her. The action was slow and malicious, his canines flashing in the grey light. “I thought you’d appreciate it if I kept the natural musk of my hangover.”

“You reek of whisky,” Nesta muttered darkly.

That made Cassian still. Naively, he hadn’t stopped to wonder whether it would bother her to smell alcohol on him. It had been two months since he had allowed Nesta her last drink, and whilst she had never sought it out at the camp, Cassian wasn't sure whether that was because she was too afraid to leave the house or because she genuinely didn’t want it. He should have thought about it though - the smell. He knew better than anyone what it was like in those first few months without alcohol. And although Cassian could now drink with the conscience that he was not dependent on it, it had taken him years to get there. 

Cursing his stupidity, he opened his mouth to apologise but Nesta cut him off, “You can stop worrying, the smell of stale whisky doesn’t make me want to hunt down the local moonshine.”

Resting her hands on her hips, Nesta eyed the target ahead of them with such ferocity Cassian thought that sheer will alone might be enough to knock it over. But after a moment she huffed in frustration. “This isn’t working.”

“You’ve barely tried,” Cassian replied nonchalantly, tossing the finished apple core between the trees.

He sighed as she glared at him.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered. Nesta sent him a final death glare but she did as he asked. “Now, think of something that gets that lace underwear of yours in a twist, and not in a pleasant way. You can think of me later when you’re alone.”

Nesta’s eyes snapped open and in them was that unbridled anger that heated his blood. His grin was smug as her fingertips sparked to life, the silver transparent power winding its way up her wrists.

“You’re disgusting,” she spat, all the while those tendrils climbed higher, their wispy fingers reaching her shoulders…

“Self-pleasure is never disgusting, sweetheart. I would have thought you’d have known that, given your previous comments on the subject matter.”

With a speed Cassian admired, Nesta span back to the clearing as silver fire flew from her palms. Awe and excitement rushed through him and he sat up straighter, his hangover suddenly inconsequential. She was breathtaking.

“Keep the anger there,” he barked, as Nesta started to lower her hands. She froze and Cassian watched the mist start to retract down her arms. “Do you feel it in your blood?” he asked.

Wide-eyed she nodded. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if the effort from trying to stop her power from retreating was taking every ounce of her will.

“Good,” he praised. “Listen to it. Welcome it into your veins. We need to work on not expelling your power all at once. Does it still feel like it’s humming?”

Nesta nodded again as he jumped off the boulder and slowly came up behind her. He stopped when he was a foot or so away. Cassian had trained with Nesta enough to have figured out that she felt most vulnerable when someone surprised her from behind. He didn’t need to figure out why, he knew.

“Good," he repeated. “That energy is what you want. Now breathe,” he commanded, “you need to relax into it. Accept it. Don’t treat it as other, it is you.”

He watched her release a shaky breath. Then another. Her power stopped retracting and remained steady around her forearms.

“What makes you most angry?” he asked quietly.

Nesta snorted harshly. “Everything makes me angry.”

“Lots of material to work with then,” he joked. “Think of something that makes you want to pummel someone and then take aim.”

Cassian watched her chest rise and fall as she let out another slow breath. Her brow crinkled as she concentrated, and to his satisfaction, that mist travelled up her arms… to her chest, until it was spiralling around her like her own personal hurricane. With her eyes tightly shut, Nesta rose her hands and that power crackled as it shot across the clearing in a concentrated blaze of silver fire.

“Good,” Cassian praised, as he watched the top of one of the conifer trees light up like a beacon. “Don’t let it disappear. Focus on holding it there.”

Nesta cracked open an eye to survey the damage. Mist still eddied around her hands and arms, as if it were listening to her iron will rather than acting on its own merit.

“I set fire to a tree,” she said flatly.

“You set fire to two trees actually, but you’ve got to start somewhere,” Cassian quipped as he calmly extinguished the fires with a flare of a siphon. Then he smirked. “You should open your eyes before you aim next time though, it tends to help.”

Nesta muttered some cruel insults under her breath and Cassian barked a laugh as he sat back down on the boulder.

“Who did you drink with? I’d like to hunt them down and make them suffer for subjecting me to your bad mood.”

“It was Azriel’s birthday,” Cassian replied. “He’s not one for a big celebration, so he, Rhys and I played cards.”

“You lost, I assume?”

“And why would you assume that?”

“As I said, you’re in a foul mood.”

“I don’t like it here,” was all Cassian supplied in answer. Then, because he wanted to change the subject, and because the opportunity was to good to pass up, he asked, “When’s your birthday?”

He watched her shoulders set and as they did that mist stilled until it was a thick, opaque fog. It obscured her body.

“Why does it matter?” Her words were pointed. Sharp. On edge.

“It’s an opportunity to celebrate,” he said lightly.

“I don’t have friends or family, and unfortunately for me I’m now immortal. Celebrating a birthday hardly matters,” Nesta said tightly.

“You have two sisters who would like to celebrate with you. And you could have friends, if you wanted.”

That mist started to roll again, its movement agitated, as if the mention of her sisters were playing on her emotions. Like Azriel’s shadows, Cassian suspected that this was her tell — as if to some extent her power worked independently of her usual self-control and Nesta had yet to master it.

Her nostrils flared as she sensed his realisation, and when she next spoke her voice was deathly angry, “My sisters have made it perfectly clear that they don’t want me around.”

“That’s not true —“ Cassian started, but Nesta whirled on the spot.

One look at her told him that this time he had pushed her too far. The expression on her face was deadly calm, but the storm in her eyes promised something far more sinister. She pointed a long, thin finger and stabbed it through the air towards him. And even though he was still a distance away, Cassian felt it connect with his chest, right over his heart.

“It is true. Do not lie to me. Do you think I don’t know what this is?” The low and measured heat in Nesta’s voice was terrifying. It sent chills down his spine as she waved her other hand to the surrounding area, as if she were encompassing the entirety of Illyria in the gesture.

“Do you think that banishing me to this awful place against my will is going to make me see sense and apologise for what has happened? That I will become nice and cordial and thankful to you all for putting up with me?”

Cassian didn’t move but his nostrils flared, his breath starting to come that bit quicker. Why could she get under his skin like nobody else could? And in this case… well, she was voicing his fears… what he had known she had thought but had yet to voice. It killed him to hear her start to say it, because despite all of the odds, he had hoped that she might learn to like it here, with him. He’d hoped they’d have time...

He wanted to speak but he couldn’t. It was just as well, because Nesta was nowhere near finished. She stepped closer to him and even though he was still sitting on the boulder, he felt like she were looking down at him rather than the other way around.

“Well, I’ve got news for you, Lord of Bloodshed. I will not apologise. I will not apologise for despising the body I have been forced into and losing my identity. I will not apologise for being an inconvenience in how I choose to deal with what has happened to me and how I grieve. And I certainly won’t apologise for wanting to be left alone, because I am drowning and I want to.”

The fierceness of her words - of her confession - made his whole body lurch into action. He had known deep down, that this was what she thought she wanted; to fade away until she was nothing and no-one. But he also knew that she still cared. Cassian saw it when spoke to Mas and Roksana, ensuring they both ate a good meal when they arrived at midday; he had seen it after that ice wall of hers had shattered and horror had consumed her entire expression when she had seen the cuts on his face; he had seen it in the way she had panicked when she thought that she had harmed the females, the children…

Nesta had always felt too much, and that included the pain and suffering of others. No wonder she wanted to run away from it all, to finally be given some peace.

“Nesta,” Cassian said hoarsely, dropping down onto the earth so he could be closer to her. He wanted to touch her so badly… to pull her to him and beg her not to think like that… to understand that things could get better.

Everything hurt as she instinctively stepped away from him, her hands splayed wide at her side as that mist spun around her in absolute fury. To his dismay, he watched a tear roll down her face and drip off her chin. Cassian had not seen Nesta cry since that day in the mortal realm, when she had raged at the Queens to protect the defenceless.

He did reach for her then, unable to stop himself, but she rose her hands at him, her expression determined and ready to carry through her threat despite her tear-streaked cheeks.

“Do not touch me,” she raged with an icy calm that was at odds with the emotions that were clearly rampant beneath her skin. “I will not be moulded into the person you want me to be so you can report back to my sister that I have been well-behaved.”

“Nesta,” Cassian rasped again, the word imploring, “I never want you to be nice and cordial. You are fire and steel and rage and you are breathtaking with it but… you are lost.” He took a small step towards her but stopped as her nostrils flared, her chest heaving at his nerve. He stared at her palms… at the concentrated circle of light in their centre ready to pour forth and hit him square in the chest.

“I’m not doing this for Feyre,” he insisted. “I’ve been lost before. I drank and fucked until I forgot everything. I pushed away the only family I had and if they hadn’t pulled me out of it I would have destroyed myself. I can see you doing the same and I just… I want to help. I thought Illyria would give you room to breathe and get away. I… I didn’t realise how bad things had got for you. None of us did. But that’s our fault, Nesta. We have failed you.”

He shook his head, correcting himself. “I failed you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Nesta didn’t say anything. She just stared at him. He could not tell what she was thinking, or what she felt. Her eyes were just as unreadable as that time he had visited her when she was still human… when he had wanted to know everything that she was thinking but was unable to penetrate that expressionless mask.

So when she turned on her heel, he was not anticipating it. He did not expect the silver flames that surged across the clearing, faster than he had ever seen before.

This time she did not set fire to a tree. No, Nesta razed the entire clearing to the ground. And during the whole time, Cassian did not move. He did not move as those trees burned and burned and burned; as the wood cracked and splintered. He did not flinch at the scorching heat that licked its way up to the sky and neither did she. Together they watched the destruction she had caused, as if she were a mighty vengeful Queen and he a death omen beside her, his siphons the colour of blood. There was no remorse. There was nothing.

Finally, Nesta’s hands dropped and rage was replaced with cold steel. It slammed between them — an impenetrable partition - and the brutality of it left him reeling.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked hoarsely. “I’ll take you back to your apartment, if that’s what you want. I can take you home, to Velaris.”

“I don’t have a home,” Nesta said flatly. Already her voice was laced with the sort of exhaustion that came with draining yourself entirely of power. It was timeless and numb and horrifying to hear. “Just take me back to Windhaven.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian tries to broach the war. Nesta and Roksana continue to bond. Azriel comes to visit, and Nesta realises Cassian is fighting demons too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday means the next chapter of Embers & Light! I cannot believe how many comments I got for the last chapter - thank you, thank you, thank you everyone for your comments, they literally made me glow like Feyre after she slept with Rhys - hahaha!
> 
> I have spent the week seriously going over the plot for this with a tooth-comb and I finally feel like I can storm forwards. I love writing the relationship side of things, but writing actual plot is super hard for me so I feel a lot more relaxed now I've got a direction.
> 
> On another note, ACOSF is the sexiest, smuttiest book yet. MY HEART LEAPT WITH JOY. I would genuinely buy a book solely dedicated to Nessian smut should SJM want to write any vignettes... Anyone else?
> 
> p.s This chapter is over 8000 words... you're welcome!

** Chapter Thirteen  
Nesta **

They didn’t speak for days after that morning on the desolate mountain pass. It was not for lack of trying on Cassian’s part. He attempted to speak with her morning and evening, but nothing could penetrate the shell Nesta had become. She stopped eating save for a few bites of food, and those thoughts that Nesta had tried so hard to push away… well, they conquered every second, every breath, until she was consumed by the meaning behind each memory and action that rose up to haunt her. Paired with a pressing weight and discomfort in her lower abdomen, Nesta felt like she were a ghost, wholly detached from her body yet unable to escape from the depths of her mind. 

Her ‘battle fatigue’ as Cassian had called it, was near unbearable. Even the log burners in the house were too loud; the crack and spit of snapping bones reaching her too sensitive ears. She piled blankets on top of her instead, and Cassian ever perceptive, had opted to freeze in the living room rather than warm the space in the evenings — not that she joined him.

But after three days she felt as if she were being crushed under the weight of her power. The magic clawed at her skin, scrabbling to break free, and even though she snuck out to run up the mountain after Cassian had left the house, it wasn’t enough to make it placid. If anything, it was made worse as she trekked through the pine trees, every snap of a twig like the scrape of a claw down her insides as that power roiled and moved.

So even though she hated herself for it, she gave in. 

Nesta ignored Cassian’s look of relief when she turned up to breakfast in her fighting gear. He didn’t say good morning or engage her in conversation as she wordlessly ate the bowl he put in front of her. She pretended she didn’t notice the eyes that never left her face; the golden brown flecked with green that had always seen too much of her. He flew them up the mountain and at the first connection of her first with the sparring pad her power was roaring. She had held her hands up to the sky as it rushed out of her, the heat a blazing silver trail through the clouds. 

Afterwards, when she felt hollow and exhausted again, she found herself biting back tears. Since their fight, they had started to appear uninvited. Nesta never made a sound, she just waited for the tears to stop tracing silent streaks down her cheeks. Most nights, she’d wake with her face wet and a strangled sob caught in the back of her throat without any idea why she was crying. 

She wished it would stop. She just wished it would all stop, most days. 

As always, Cassian noticed the silver lining her eyes, but he only wordlessly raised his palms when she got back into starting position, ready for her to start pummelling her fists into the pads again. He was unusually quiet. Normally, he would be barking orders and correcting her on her stance, but today his mouth formed a thin, tight line, as if he were waiting for her to break the silence between them.

Yet when their training session ended, his resolve wavered. “I have to go away for a few days.”

Nesta did not look up as she unwrapped her hands. “Fine.”

“You could come with me, if you like.”

She refused to look up and meet his eyes. They were always too intense, too astute in working out what she was thinking. It was always so hard to look away. 

“Why?”

“So you can get out. It would be a change of scenery.”

Nesta ignored him, bending down to pick a snowdrop from the mountain floor. Part of her wanted to go, just because she was fed up of being in the same place. Nesta had always wanted to travel and see the world — at this point, even if it was just more of the cold, muddy camps — but the thought of giving him what he wanted after everything she had said… she couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Those snowdrops are native to Illyria,” Cassian told her, nodding to the flower in her hand. “It’s the only place in the entirety of Prythian where you can find them in that colour. They're usually white.”

Nesta twirled the stem between her thumb and forefinger. It was a beautiful flower. It wasn’t quite blue or purple, but somewhere in-between — dusky and soft against the harsh landscape. Elain would love it. It was the first time Nesta had truly thought of her closest sister outside of the context of her banishment. 

It was her birthday soon. 

“Nesta,” Cassian implored, his voice cracking slightly, “please talk to me.”

She continued to stare at the long curves of the outer petals. The head was drooped as if it were sad — crying. She knew the feeling. 

“What, so you feel better about yourself?”

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he started — 

“Neither are you,” she snapped back. 

Cassian was naive if he thought she hadn’t noticed the black rings under his eyes, and how he had switched his usual tea for strong coffee in the mornings. There had been a tiredness about him since the day he had flown them to Illyria, and it hadn’t gotten much better since. At night, when she couldn’t sleep and she opened a book instead, she would hear him tossing and turning in bed. And sometimes, she woke paralysed with a distant fear lining her stomach, even though she hadn’t been dreaming.

“Careful Nesta, I’ll start to think you care,” Cassian warned, his voice a low rumble. 

Nesta bent to pick another snowdrop, refusing to react like he was goading her to.

Sighing, Cassian dragged a palm over his tired eyes. The action was slow — defeated.

“No,” he admitted eventually. “I haven’t slept well since the war. I have… nightmares about the death of the soldiers we lost to the Cauldron. I dream that I get buried in their ashes. It’s…” 

Cassian trailed off, but she didn’t need him to finish his sentence. She knew how horrible it must be to see the warriors you led into battle turn to nothing but ash. And she… she had saved him. She had never stopped to think of the guilt Cassian might feel for flying away from his soldiers as the Cauldron was unleashed. She had assumed Cassian was too experienced in war to dwell on the deaths of those around him. It was a stupid assumption, given how much he cared about everything else. 

She supposed his guilt was her fault, too.

“I had to tell all of the families in the weeks after the war, once I had healed,” Cassian continued. His voice had dropped another octave. The deep intensity of it hit her square in the chest, even though he was still a few feet away. “That’s - it’s why I didn’t come to find you. It took... a long time.”

Nesta stilled. She did not want to talk about this. She did not want to talk about what he had promised her in what they believed were their final moments. And how after, he had left broken with Azriel and Mor and had then disappeared without so much as a goodbye. As if she were inconsequential.

The horror of what had happened had set in after that, and by the time that he had come to find her, she had already decided how she wanted to cope.

But Cassian carried on, admitting, “I have a habit of putting work first. I have done it all of my life but… I regret not coming to find you first, Nesta. I’m a stubborn ass and I’m not used to having to lay the groundwork.”

Nesta nearly snorted at that. Oh, she was too aware of the females that fawned over him. He’d probably never had to try in his entire life when it came to finding a bed partner. Apart from Mor… That thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. There was too much history there. It was one of the reasons that she had drawn a line under it all. 

She willed herself not to care. She had made it very clear that she wanted nothing from him on multiple occasions. Yet… she still felt that pull.

Nesta started to walk away. 

“Where are you going?”

“To the house.”

“That’s a long walk down.”

“Good.”

Nesta heard the crunch of loose stone on crystalline rock rather than the beat of wings, and clenched the fist that wasn’t holding the flowers. Of course he would follow.

She shot him a withering glare as he stepped into line beside her, his long legs shortening their stride to match hers. 

“If you like, you could have Elain come and stay with you whilst I’m gone. Azriel could bring her in.”

The offer surprised Nesta and she faltered as she was assaulted by multiple strains of thought. She scrabbled for something to say — to hide how thrown she was. “And where would you have her sleep? On the floor?”

“She can take my bed,” Cassian said simply. “Or you can take mine and she can take yours. Whatever you want.”

The thought of sleeping in Cassian’s bed amongst his possessions made her want to scream. “No.”

“Well, the offer stands. She can visit whenever she likes.”

“But I can’t go there?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to go back,” Cassian confessed lightly. “You could write to Elain and organise a date for her to come to Illyria.”

Cassian was right, Nesta didn’t want to go back to Velaris. She had too many bad memories there. She supposed she’d be dragged back for Solstice… or perhaps they were done with her now and wouldn't even try to convince her. That was something she didn't want to think about, too. And she didn't want to think about Elain either… not really. Nesta had been forced to push away her favourite person because she was a reminder of how Nesta had failed… She had failed Elain the moment her sister was pushed into that Cauldron.

“No,” Nesta repeated, with a finality that dared him to contradict her.

Cassian caught her wrist so she had to face him. 

She glared at him. “Get off of me.”

But he didn't let go. His grip wasn’t harsh — Cassian was always surprisingly gentle, despite his obvious strength. Even when they sparred, she noticed that when they were practicing defensive moves, there were certain positions where he never pinned her with enough force; as if he had read her body language and knew the association she had with them… at the panic that consumed her. 

“Nesta, what happened to Elain and your father... that wasn’t your fault.”

Nesta tried to look elsewhere but his hand whipped up to catch her chin. She was too tired to bat him away. The porridge that morning had been the only thing she’d really eaten for days, and she felt light-headed and queasy after their sparring, especially after draining so much power.

“It was not your fault,” he repeated quietly, his fingers firm but light somehow. “You saved thousands of lives. Do you realise how much everyone owes you?” He waved a hand around him, gesturing to Illyria… to Prythian, to illustrate his point.

“Your High Lord sealed the Cauldron, not me,” she replied dully… wearily, but with enough emphasis on High Lord to express her disdain for her sister’s mate. 

Her eyes lined with tears again and Cassian let her look away, his large hand dropping to his side as she stared resolutely at the mountain pass below them; at the snow-capped tops of the pine trees, the females scuttling about in the cold, and the males training in the sparring rings, their steel glinting in the watery sunlight.

“You killed the man behind it,” Cassian insisted, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “You tracked the Cauldron down. Have you ever thought that if you hadn’t taken something from that damned Cauldron when you were Made that we would all be dead right now? You changed the course of history, Nesta.”

He was right, she had not thought of that. All she had thought about as she went under was that she would not go down without fighting… That if they had taken Elain from her and made her Fae, then she would wreak havoc and do everything in her power to kill the male behind it. That pointed finger had been a sworn vow and Nesta had followed it through when she carved out a piece of power for herself and woke something deep inside of her; how that ancient voice had found her in the inky dark. 

Nesta had been willing to die for revenge… so much so, that she had never looked beyond it. She had never contemplated what she’d do if she’d lived…

Cassian left Nesta with her thoughts as they trekked the hour back to the house. He did not let her traipse straight to the bathroom. Instead, he steered her to the kitchen table whilst he made her some food. Nesta didn’t complain. Exhaustion had settled around her like a heavy blanket, and the thought of even contemplating getting out of the chair to defy him seemed too much. Cassian pretended to read over some papers whilst she ate, although he spent little time studying them. Instead, he watched her attempt to clear her entire plate with the ferocity of a hawk. 

Nesta knew it pained him when she didn’t eat. Too many times she’d caught him studying her too thin frame; the hollow of her collar bone, her sunken cheeks… His eyes always took on the same haunted look which she had witnessed that first day in Illyria, when Cassian had circled her emaciated wrist with his large fingers and begged her to eat something.

She felt a lot better with a full stomach, and after washing away the sweat from their workout, she spent the rest of the afternoon napping in her bedroom. Cassian had asked her if she wanted him to light the log burners before he left — a warrior had arrived at the door during breakfast with a message that had left Cassian’s rough-hewn features blazing — but she had just shaken her head. She’d rather freeze than fall into a state of panic.

Once she had woken up well past midday, Nesta tried to read for a few hours, but her gaze kept being drawn beneath the dressing table, where Cassian had left a box from her sisters. It was their latest attempt to connect with her and angered by the gesture, Nesta had left it untouched for weeks. But now, curiosity was starting to get the better of her... Nesta wished Cassian hadn’t dared to mention Elain, but now the seed had been planted in her mind, its thin roots winding through cracks of ice and steel, she suddenly needed to know what her closest sister had to say.

After Nesta had failed to read another page of her book, she snapped it shut with a snarl.

“Oh for goodness sake,” she muttered under her breath, irritated at her failure to omit the presence of the box. 

Kicking off the blankets, Nesta climbed out of bed and pulled the box from its hiding place. She wrenched off the lid and sat down on the carpet, her skirts blooming around her. On the top sat two envelopes penned by different hands. Scowling, Nesta quickly tossed away the envelope with Feyre’s writing towards the log burner, but she placed Elain’s by her side. Then she turned her attention to what was inside the box: two of her favourite dresses — simple of course, but elegant in midnight blue and violet — and a collection of satin ribbons in various colours, which Nesta guessed were Elain’s. There were also three of her favourite dog-eared paperbacks and some gold-leaf hair pins wrapped in forest green tissue paper. 

Swallowing down her anger that her sisters had been to her apartment, Nesta slowly tore open Elain’s letter:

_My dearest Nesta,_

_I was out shopping yesterday and saw some hair pins that I thought would look so lovely in your hair, so I had the shop assistant wrap them in tissue paper. I’ve packed some of my old ribbons for you too, in case you’re looking for some more bookmarks. I’d imagine you are, given how much you read…_

_I know you must be very angry with us, Nesta. I’m so sorry. I love you so very much. We have always been close and I feel lost without you. We have always done everything together…_

_I’m not going to tell you to be happy — what a stupid thing to ask of someone. I’m not happy a lot of the time. I hate my Fae body; my limbs are too long and the ears… well, I think you feel the same. I’m trying to make my peace with not being human, but it’s hard to accept something you never wanted for yourself. Gardening helps and at least I can do that all day now. I have lots of projects to keep me busy, but I wish I had you to keep me company._

_What is Illyria like? Azriel assures me it has some beautiful sunsets and that the night sky is even more spectacular than Velaris. Is it true? Azriel said he can winnow me in to come and see you if you’d like — he’s always so kind to me. Cassian even suggested that I could stay the night so we could make a few days of it. I’d really love that, but I know you might rather be left alone._

_I visited your apartment and packed up some more things — your favourite dresses and books._

_Write back when you’re ready.  
Love, Elain._

There was a lump in her throat as Nesta finished the letter. She was so engrossed that when her bedroom door creaked open, she jumped. She spun, ready to spit at Cassian until she was blue, but she paused when she caught Roksana’s startled face retreating back behind the wood.

“It’s all right, you can come in,” Nesta called quickly. 

Roksana peeked back around the door. Nesta beckoned towards her in encouragement, and with a flap of her unsteady wings, the orphan stumbled through the air towards her. 

Falling to her knees centimetres from where Nesta was positioned on the carpet, Roksana paid her rough landing no heed. Instead, the orphan’s dark eyes searched Nesta’s face and with a worried frown, she reached her small hands upwards… to the tears that had crept unnoticed down Nesta’s cheeks. 

Quickly, Nesta dabbed the tears away, but Roksana’s fingers closed around her sleeve as she peered up at Nesta in concern. The contact surprised Nesta; the orphan was like an easily startled animal — one wrong move and she would usually scuttle off, but now it seemed the least of her concern.

A sob wanted to escape Nesta but she managed to hold it back. Even so, her voice trembled as she squeezed the girls little hands, “I’m ok, it’s nothing to worry about.” 

Nesta tried to lift the corners of her lips but they trembled instead. It took her a moment to chain the sudden sadness that consumed her. 

Finally she asked, “I presume you have come for a story?”

Roksana’s dark eyes remained wary. Nesta made herself smile, even if the gesture was weak as she brushed away the last of the wetness from her cheeks. “I’m fine — see?” Nesta told the orphan with as much reassurance as she could muster.

But Roksana clearly wasn't convinced. Slowly, the Illyrian raised up on her knees, her thin arms wrapping around Nesta’s middle in a hug. The gesture was clumsy and awkward, the angle doing nothing to make it easy, but warmth flared inside of Nesta as the little girl’s hands tried and failed to join around her waist. 

When had Nesta last been comforted like this? She couldn’t remember — it must have been Elain, but Nesta couldn’t recall when it was. Nesta closed herself off so effectively around others that nobody usually dared to touch her. It had been why Nesta had been so taken aback the day she had arrived in Illyria, when Mas had patted Nesta’s face in that motherly way of hers. It had made Nesta feel wanted… loved even, for the first time in years.

Gently, Nesta wound an arm around the Illyrian’s body and squeezed. 

“Now,” Nesta said, as she tried to fight the lump in her throat. She drew back to look Roksana in the eyes. “I believe it’s time for a story, is it not?”

Roksana nodded, but her eyes dropped to Nesta’s lap, where the ribbons snaked across the cotton of her grey dress. Small fingers made to touch them, but then they hovered in mid-air, unsure…

“You can choose one,” Nesta assured Roksana, recognising the look of longing in the orphan’s eyes. “I’ll do your hair whilst I tell you the tale of Albern and the Princess Who Never Laughed.”

Nesta recounted the fairytale from memory as best she could. As she spoke, she eased the tangles from Roksana’s head with her ivory brush. The little girl’s hair was always a knotted mess — it reminded her of Cassian’s after he’d been flying — and it was a long time until Roksana’s hair shone ebony. Roksana listened quietly whilst Nesta plaited two dutch braids on either side of her head, which she secured into one ponytail with a turquoise ribbon. It was a hairstyle Nesta had often practiced on Elain and Feyre when they were children, and it came as naturally to her as breathing, even though she hadn’t done it for years.

Nesta was just explaining how the Princess had laughed so hard the King had to hold her up when she saw Albern with his golden goose and a gaggle of people in tow, when she saw a movement in the corner of her eye. She fashioned the satin into a bow and looked over, even though she had already scented pine, musk and fresh air.

Cassian was at the door, his knuckles hovering over the wood. “Sorry to interrupt.” 

He was back earlier than normal and surprisingly clean. Cassian usually returned in time for dinner covered in dirt, blood or sweat — or most often, a combination of all three. Nesta got the impression that he made a point of rounding off his day with some sparring, so she barely bat an eyelid at whatever bruises and cuts he showed up with. Today though, there was a tightness about him; Nesta could see it in the rigid set of his muscles and the dark of his pupils. Even his hair looked angry; windswept into tangles around his tan face that rivalled Roksana’s.

Roksana jumped at the deep voice, moving to scuttle off the chair, but Nesta rested a reassuring hand on her head. “You’re ok, Roksana.”

The orphan’s fingers curled in Nesta’s skirts, but she didn’t hide as Cassian stepped across the doorway. Nesta watched Cassian survey the room — her possessions scattered across the floor… the opened letter…

“You’re back early,” Nesta said, keeping her voice measured for Roksana’s sake but using the conversation as an attempt to stop his prying eyes.

“I need to go over paperwork before tomorrow,” Cassian admitted.

Nesta’s blood bubbled with anger as he slowly, slowly dragged his eyes away from the box. Then they fell on Roksana. 

Nesta watched Cassian’s irises lighten until they were a molten brown, as if the ghosts of the day had suddenly been chased away. He bent down beside the dressing table so he was eye-level with her, his body language relaxed and completely at ease. Rosana’s small hands tightened around Nesta’s skirts and her wings rustled uneasily, but she didn’t scuttle away.

“Spectat pulchra caput tuum,” Cassian said softly, gesturing to the girl’s hair. “Ribbon non vis?” Roksana stared up at him wide-eyed as the General spoke to her in Illyrian, but she remained silent. Cassian didn’t seem bothered; he only smiled kindly, his voice still gentle as he asked, “Et vis est tibi?"

A little dazed, Roksana gave a small nod. The movement was miraculous given her desire to hide moments earlier and Nesta stored the communication away to replay later —a small triumph.

“It’s a good choice,” Cassian told the orphan, switching back to the common tongue. He broke into a grin then, and his eyes sparkled hazel as they lifted to Nesta. 

Her stomach squeezed and flipped. 

“I just wanted to tell you that Azriel will be here for dinner,” he told her.

“Fine.”

“You’ll join us?”

Nesta held back a scowl. She wasn’t going to fight with him in front of Roksana and he knew it, so she just repeated, “Fine.”

Cassian straightened up and it suddenly struck Nesta just how tall he was. He had to be at least six foot four, if not more, and Nesta had to jut her chin up high just to meet his gaze. And if that was how it was for Nesta, who was by no means a short female, he must seem gigantic to Roksana… No wonder she had been wary of him. 

Dragging a hand through his untameable hair, Cassian’s lips tilted upwards into a tight smile. “Good,” he told Nesta. “We’ll eat at seven.”  
  


* * *

  
Nesta took the time to do her own hair once Roksana and Mas had left. 

The older Illyrian had clapped her hands in delight at the sight of the orphan. “I hardly recognise you, Roksana! Et multo plus satis!”

Now, Nesta tried to ignore Cassian in the reflection of the dressing table mirror. Mas had left the door wide open after she had collected Roksana to trek their way back up the mountain, and Nesta didn’t want to seem like she cared enough to close it. Cassian was sitting on his side of the couch studying some papers that were littered around him. His hair was in a haphazard bun and even from where she sat, she could make out the shadow of stubble on his jaw. She knew he was trying not to glance at her, too — she could tell by muscle that feathered in his jaw as his eyes failed to move across paper.

Their earlier conversation was still in her mind. It was the closest they had ever gotten to addressing what happened between them at Hybern for well over a year... If Nesta had been in the mood for arguing she would have pointed out — with great fervour — how she was sure he could have squeezed in a visit before he disappeared off to Illyria to inform the families. But she hadn’t wanted to dwell on the subject. It terrified her, where that conversation could go. 

And then there were the other things he had said: _It’s not your fault_.

Lies, lies, lies.

Staring resolutely at her reflection and not at Cassian, Nesta wound half of her hair into a coronet. She left the rest of it down, purposefully pulling some of it in front of her ears. Like Elain, Nesta hated her pointed ears — she’d switch back to her rounded human ears in a heartbeat if she could. Outside of the human lands, pointed ears were a sign of beauty — of being High Fae — but Nesta couldn’t stamp out the hatred she felt every time she saw herself in the mirror. She had been raised human after all, and for mortals, pointed ears marked her as other — inhuman.

Azriel arrived at dusk and immediately sat down with Cassian on the couch amongst the papers. Parts of their serious conversation drifted through the open door — something to do with an attack at one of the camps and an impending visit to another — but Nesta tried to block them out.

For lack of something to do, Nesta kept herself busy by unpacking the box from Elain. She hung the dresses she would never have cause to wear in Illyria into the wardrobe and placed the books onto the shelving by the window. They were human stories — the covers beaten and worn… loved. Many people thought it sacrilege to snap a spine or dog-ear a page, but for Nesta, books were to be consumed and enjoyed. They were not to be peered into for fear of cracking a spine or creasing a page. She had never understood people that treated their latest read as if it were in danger of breaking. It had always made her want to roll her eyes and snap.

The hair pins and ribbons Nesta decided to store away into the left-hand drawer of the dressing table. It was then that she stumbled upon the pen and stationary Cassian had provided for her all those months ago, when her sisters had first written to her. Not wanting to see the pen and paper taunting her, Nesta had hidden it all away. And even though Nesta still didn’t want to speak with Feyre ever again if she could help it, Elain’s birthday was this week. Nesta had never missed Elain’s birthday... 

Slowly, Nesta pulled out the writing materials before heading into the kitchen. The two males paid her no heed — Nesta could tell that Cassian was deliberately leaving her alone after their exchange that morning, and Azriel was… well, Azriel. He wasn’t one to pry.

The snowdrops were still on the table where she had left them, and once Nesta was back in her room, she slid a particularly good read off the shelf and pressed the flowers between some random pages, using the tissue paper from her hair pins to stop the flowers leaving a mark.  
  
When they had been starving in that wretched cottage, Elain would often press wildflowers between the pages of Nesta’s books — she always said it was a surprise for when Nesta would reach a certain page. Poppies, daisies, harebell, cuckoo flower, cornflower, musk mallow… any kind of flower Elain could get her hands on. Any leftovers would find their stems sitting in the water of small jars around the cottage. 

Elain had always been Nesta’s ray of sunshine in an otherwise dreary world. She was Nesta’s opposite. Sweet and kind and innocent, Elain loved freely. Nesta had always envied Elain for it. She was not those things. She was fierce and angry and saw the worst in everybody, no matter how hard she tried to see differently. Why love when people only let you down? A ribcage had a purpose after all — to protect your heart — and Nesta had no intention of letting anybody filter through the strips of bone and muscle, only to render her most vital organ with holes. 

Stomach churning, Nesta stared down at the blank sheet of paper. She chewed on her lip just as Cassian looked up, mercury and hazel meeting in the mirror for the briefest of moments. Purposefully slid her eyes past him, Nesta continued to stare at the living room wall, as if she hadn’t even seen him. When Azriel murmured something to his brother, Cassian turned away slowly, as if unwilling. 

Annoyed at herself for overthinking, Nesta penned a quick note:

_There are snowdrops here that are native to Illyria — they grow at the tops of the mountains. I thought you would like the colour, so I’ve pressed them for you. You might enjoy the book, too._

_Happy Birthday.  
  
_

She was sealing the envelope when she noticed the shadowsinger at her door. Trying not to tense, she met his eyes unflinchingly in the mirror and tried not to wonder how long he had been standing there observing her.

“Nesta,” Azriel greeted with a nod, his voice smooth and cold — like the midnight sky when it was devoid of stars. “We are going to eat now. Would you like to join us?”

Nesta didn’t really want to — her disagreement with Cassian this morning still sat uncomfortably in her stomach — but she dipped her head in answer. At least Azriel would be there to diffuse any tension. And, well… she was starving. Her body was desperate for food after three days of denying herself; and she could smell the spices wafting from the kitchen; turmeric, cumin, ginger and fennel, amongst others. 

Her stomach growled.  


Azriel lips tugged ever so slightly upwards. The movement softened the hard lines on his handsome face. 

“Cassian has made dosas,” he supplied. “Have you tried them yet?”

“No,” Nesta replied stiffly as she got to her feet. 

She wanted to smooth down her dress to give her hands something to do, but she made herself remain still — unfazed by his presence.

“They’re a lentil pancake filled with potato. Cassian is… very good at making them.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow at Azriel’s obvious hesitancy in admitting Cassian’s flair in the kitchen. 

“He’s an irritatingly good cook when he wants to be,” Azriel confessed. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

Not wanting to agree, Nesta stared at Azriel’s shadows, watching the way they hung close to his skin. It was similar to her own power in some ways, yet there was something calmer about his shadows. Her mist was always so agitated… as if it was always fighting to get out, whereas his seemed comfortable and relaxed around him. 

“How do you get your shadows to do what you want?”

To his credit, Azriel’s expression didn’t falter at her blunt question. Nesta was never one to beat around the bush, she just stormed right through regardless of the threat and the scrapes she’d pick up along the way.

“I accepted them as a part of me,” Azriel said slowly, “so we act as one.” 

His eyes dropped to the letter in her hands then. “Would you like me to give that to Elain?”

Immediately, Nesta felt her hackles rise. No doubt Azriel’s shadows had sought out what she was doing as soon as he came to her door, if not before. 

_Snooping Illyrian bat_ , she thought bitterly, as she stared him down with as much iciness as possible.

“Do not read it,” she hissed finally, shoving the letter and book into his hands. She did not let go.

“Of course not,” Azriel promised, but she didn’t so much as blink at him, until he vowed solemnly, “I promise.”

Nesta let go and with a flare of cobalt blue, the book and letter vanished into thin air.

“Forgive me if I don’t trust the spymaster,” Nesta said coldly, lifting her chin to show she would not back down, regardless of the seven siphons which would no doubt disable any intention she had. 

Azriel was a tall male, but not as tall as Cassian. It meant she didn’t have to crane her neck as much to glare up at him. Nesta had never met anybody that rivalled Cassian’s height — or the width of him, now she came to think of it. Azriel’s body was lined with muscles too, but Cassian was broader… larger than life. She supposed Azriel spent more time spying than sparring, whereas Cassian lived and breathed to fight. She had seen him on the battlefield — had witnessed first hand how he was made to kill — his movements not unlike a dance as he cut through males like a silver knife swiping through warm butter. 

The other warriors had called him Enolius. Nesta wondered if Cassian knew. 

Azriel bowed his head just as Cassian called from the kitchen — his voice was lined with an unusual amount of irritation. They were clearly supposed to be seated by now. “That is a fair judgement and one that I would not expect otherwise from you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Nesta clipped, as she followed Azriel into the living room.

“You’re smart and not one to be fooled,” Azriel said simply, as he tucked in his wings a little tighter. “Elain says hello, by the way. She’ll be very happy that you have written to her.” 

Nesta studied the shadowsinger’s retreating back, considering. Azriel had always had a way with Elain that even she had not managed after they were Made. Nesta supposed both of them had voices that whispered to them and Azriel had recognised that in her sister long before she had. He seemed more at ease with Elain than with others. That wasn’t unusual — everyone loved her sister — but Nesta had always thought it something more than that. He would often seek her out in the garden at the town house and Nesta had watched them like a hawk from the window, ready to swoop down on them if Azriel took even one step out of line. He hadn’t of course; Azriel was always the model of decorum… unlike his wilder Illyrian counterpart. 

“Finally,” Cassian muttered grumpily as they entered the kitchen. He slid three plates onto the table with a clatter, and for the first time ever he looked flustered. “It’s starting to get cold.”

He pushed some small bowls towards Nesta without looking at her, urging her to help herself. There was a muscle feathering in his jaw again and a tense set to his shoulders that had not been there earlier, even after their exchange up the mountain.

“That’s very spicy,” Cassian warned as she reached for a bowl full of a red sauce, in the way he often did, without his eyes having ever left his plate. Deciding to listen to him for once, Nesta only drizzled a little bit over her the potatoes before handing it back to him. He purposefully passed them to Azriel rather than serving himself, who was watching his brother with an intensity that told Nesta he was trying to figure out why Cassian was suddenly so short-tempered. 

It took all of Nesta’s willpower to slowly eat the food from her plate, rather than inhale it like Cassian and Azriel. The dosa was full of flavour; the spices heating her insides until they were alive and singing. Even Azriel, who was stringent when it came to manners, devoured his food before looking up at Cassian expectantly.

Cassian’s bark of gruff laughter was devoid of its usual warmth. “I gather you’d like another?” he said to his brother.

“Of course,” Azriel replied, “it’s the only reason i’m here.”

“Charming,” Cassian replied drily, as he heaped more filling onto a dosa. “Here I was thinking we were going over the most recent intel before our trip to Forktail tomorrow.” 

He turned his attention to Nesta and raised a dark eyebrow. “Want more?”

Cassian didn’t wait for her to reply, grabbing her plate from in front of her. He heaped a mountain of potatoes onto a new dosa — most likely trying to make up for what she hadn’t eaten over the past few days — and handed it back to her.

Azriel shrugged as Cassian sat back down at the table. “It was mainly an excuse for this,” he said, gesturing to his full plate with a fork. 

Cassian snorted. “We may as well eat ourselves to full strength. Lord Condor is still a pain in my ass. Last time I visited, three more females had been clipped and there were only two girls in the sparring ring. They could barely hold a knife correctly and they had received no training in the skies.”

“The Forktail camp is known for having the best aerial legion in Illyria,” Azriel told Nesta, as if she were an interested party. “If the Night Court were ever to go to war again, then we would need them to fight from above.”

“ _Had,”_ Cassian corrected with a growl. “They _had_ the best aerial legion in Illyria. We need to reform the entire damn force, and Condor is loathe to train the girls when he doesn’t believe they’ll be able to wield the bow.”

“We lost practically the whole legion on the battlefield at Hybern,” Azriel supplied. “The aerial unit favour the Illyrian bow as their weapon of choice. It’s particularly difficult to wield and takes years of practice.”

The former part of that sentence snagged Nesta’s attention. Her eyes slid to Cassian’s to find him staring straight back at her, his expression hard and unyielding. She watched his jaw clench again and in her head, she heard the words he’d said to her earlier: _I dream I get buried in their ashes._

Guilt twisted in her stomach and her lower abdomen throbbed in response. It was her fault that he was feeling like this, yet she would not apologise for saving his life. She wouldn’t apologise for what that blasted Cauldron had nearly done to him… to them.

That guilt festered inside of her so much so that she decided to wash up as Cassian bid Azriel goodbye half an hour later. Azriel was to winnow back to Windhaven first thing tomorrow, before he and Cassian moved on to Camp Forktail.

She wasn’t sure what compelled her to start cleaning the dirty dishes — perhaps it was the gravity of what Cassian was facing tomorrow or because only now were his earlier words were starting to hit home: _It was not your fault_. Were they the words he wished he believed of himself? For the Fae he had led into battle who had not come out of the other end? 

She was just scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain, when a deep voice from behind her said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“No,” she replied simply, because she didn’t.

“I never thought i’d see the day when Nesta Archeron was washing the dishes,” Cassian mused, trying for lightness but failing… his words still strained. 

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” she bit out. 

She had. When Feyre had managed to catch something in the woods, she and Elain always cleaned up after. Nesta had never enjoyed doing it, but then of course, she had missed it when there was no food on the table the next day and her stomach was aching with hunger. 

Grabbing a tea towel, Cassian started to dry the plates. Nesta tried to ignore the warmth of him. The male was always a damn oven to her ice that did not want to be thawed. 

It struck her as she handed him a clean plate, that if anyone were to look in at them, they’d be the picture of domesticity; as if they did this together every night — her silently handing him dishes and pans whilst he dried them in comfortable, companionable silence. It could not be further from the truth, really. 

As if to prove her point, Cassian glanced sideways at her. “I don’t want to leave like this… with you upset at me.”

Nesta didn’t want to get into that, so she said the obvious instead, “You don’t want to go tomorrow.”

“No.” A pause. “You could come with us. I’d like to see Condor’s arrogant face when you bait him with your power.” 

A small smile tugged at his lips at that, as if the thought of it brought him great joy rather than fear that she might unleash devastation upon the whole camp. Cassian never seemed bothered by the enormity of what she could do. What was it he had said? _You are breathtaking._ He believed it too, Nesta could tell. His eyes lit up whenever that mist promised to fly from her fingertips, as if the spark of power thrilled him right to his very core. 

He seemed to forget that she couldn’t control it. She had razed an entire clearing to the ground with her fire because her rage burned too fiercely. And whilst she had wielded control of it when she had flung her silver flames at Devlon, she knew that she could not do it again.

“Do you want me to kill the rest of the aerial legion? I can’t control it.”

“Yet,” Cassian added quietly. “We can try again when i’m back.” 

A moment passed as he stacked a dry plate on top of the other two he’d already gone over with the towel. “You’ll be all right here?”

“I have always been fine when you have left me before. I’m not a child.”

Cassian didn’t respond to that, as if he begged to differ about her being ok. She supposed when he had last left for a few nights, she had been withdrawing. She hadn’t been ok then. She had spent her time sweating and shaking and most importantly, trying not to vomit. He had been back a day late too, and she had found herself inexplicably worried an hour before he came back, convinced that something awful had happened to him — his fear coating the lining of her stomach. It was his fear wrapped in pine and musk that had dragged her out of bed and to the couch.She had attempted to read, but really all she had done was contemplate the reality that the only person who was still trying with her had died and now she was truly alone…

“There’s money in the left hand drawer,” Cassian told her, breaking her out of memory. He nodded to the unit by the dining table, a stray lock of his hair falling in front of his face. “It’s always there for Mas in case she needs to buy things for the household. You can use it, if you wanted to buy anything for yourself. More books or clothes…” He trailed off. “Just take it. Tell Mas if it runs out. Illyrian’s don’t do credit here, we’re old fashioned like that.” 

“I have money,” Nesta told him tersely, thinking of her small bag of coins that Azriel has brought that first week she’d been whisked off to the mountains. She had counted the coins religiously for the first two weeks, planning on how she could get her hands on alcohol or how she could leave altogether. 

She had stopped doing that now. She wasn’t sure why.

“Well if you run out, it’s there. I can get Azriel to withdraw some money from your account and bring it when he next visits. Or I can get it when I’m next back in Velaris for you.”

Nesta snapped her neck to stare at him. The offer of money was an olive branch she hadn’t been expecting. Money gave her options; it gave her the opportunity to leave. She could tell by the tense set of his jaw that Cassian was aware of it too. But he had done it nonetheless.

Her gut tightened and her stomach felt light and foreign at the freedom he had granted her. The knowledge of it was sweet on her tongue and she tucked it away; a pearl hidden should she need it. Silver fire curled around it, licking its tongue over gleaming white.

Cassian’s eyes were hard and unblinking as he ran a towel over and over the final plate. It was long dry, but he didn’t stop, completely consumed by his own ghosts to notice.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

The words came out easily, like water running in a stream. It was a stark contrast to usual, where anything with real gravitas got lodged in her throat, mentally choking her until she gave up and swallowed them back down.

Cassian’s back stilled, and she watched all of his muscles tighten through his tunic as they drew in and up. Even his wings, which usually bobbed froze in place, as if someone had pressed pause. 

She was by the door, ready to leave and go to bed, but her legs had stopped of their own accord. 

Nesta placed a hand on the wooden doorframe to steady herself, as Cassian’s voice dropped an octave. “What wasn’t my fault?” 

“The death of the legion. You could never have stopped it.”

Nesta knew it was true because the Cauldron had been a part of her. And in that moment when she had hunted it down and it had opened that lazy eye at her, it had seen into her very being — it had learnt who she loved and cared for. So the King of Hybern had attacked strategically. She had never admitted it to anyone before. She hadn’t admitted it to herself, until now. 

Although Nesta couldn’t see him, she heard Cassian’s mouth open as if to argue, but then he must have closed it, because he only nodded tightly instead as she left the room.

As Nesta slid into bed beneath the clean sheets half an hour later, her mind was still occupied with Cassian. As she fought the sleep that was so desperate to claim her, she wondered if him asking her to come with him had been for his benefit more than hers — as if he thought she could be a crutch from the guilt that ate away at him. 

If that was the case, it was the first time anybody had needed her since after the War.

Nesta’s refusal to go with him plagued her after that.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian leaves for two days and Nesta finally leaves the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday, everyone!
> 
> Chapter fourteen is from Nesta's perspective and we really get to see her come into her own. I hope you guys like it. There is lots of Roksana and Mas interaction (which I know a lot of you asked for!)
> 
> As always, let me know what you think. The next chapter is just pure indulgence on my part, I'm not gonna lie and I know you guys are going to be veryyyy happy (I hope). We get to see "caring Cassian" (my favourite kind, apart from "sexy AF Cassian", of course) and lots of progress it made.
> 
> I know lots of you are asking when the angst will end and the happiness will arrive. It does come, I promise, just slowly. Bear with me!
> 
> p.s That teaser quote made my effing week. I could NOT be more excited for ACOSF. Do we know when we're getting the next teaser? I'd imagine once a month to drum up pre-orders? SJM need not worry, I pre-ordered months ago hahah.

** Chapter Fourteen  
Nesta **

When Nesta awoke the next morning just after sunrise, Cassian was already gone. There had been something liberating about padding to the kitchen in her nightgown, her hair a tangled mess rather than being dressed ready to spar in every sense of the word. 

Yawning, Nesta had helped herself to the endless supply of chai that sat in the saucepan on the hob and made herself some breakfast.

There was a handwritten note on the kitchen table and Nesta sat down to read it over a large bowl of steaming porridge. It only reiterated that Cassian would be gone two nights and would return late. He had also written her a training plan _‘if she wanted to practice,'_ and urged her to use the outhouse to do so, but not to leave the vicinity of the buildings after dark.

His penmanship — if it could be called that — was a bold, spiky scrawl interwoven with the odd cursive; as if he had been taught properly but had never bothered to practice. Nesta wondered if Rhys's mother had sat with him down every evening after a day in the sparring ring, and tried in vain to get a tired, young boy who had only been bred to fight, to pay enough attention to pen down a half-legible script before he could get his dinner. 

Without Cassian about there was an ease and confidence to Nesta’s movements that always seemed to come to her when no-one was around. Nesta only fully relaxed out of the presence of others. It was exhausting maintaining a cool and unaffected mask day in and day out… being ready to strike at a moments notice. And as it was Mas’s day off that first afternoon, Nesta allowed herself to truly unwind around the bungalow without the fear of anybody imposing on her space. She half-ran, half-hiked up the mountain after breakfast and then took a long soak in the bath with a book, relishing in the peace and quiet… in the stillness that was so rare whenever Cassian was about.

Nesta tried not to let herself think of him; of how he had not wanted to travel to Forktail but had gone anyway; of how she had not gone with him. She did not think about the olive branch he had offered her either; of the money that could so easily buy her freedom if she decided to take it. Instead, Nesta had cast the Illyrian into the far reaches of her mind and enjoyed the silence. It was ironic, Nesta thought, that she did not need four locks on the door here to calm her panicked heart here, especially when Illyria put Nesta in far more danger than the taverns of Velaris ever would have. Yet, in this small bungalow, Nesta did not doubt the strength of Cassian’s magic on the building’s perimeter. Not once had Nesta believed that someone could break in during the night to kidnap her. It was a solace Nesta had rarely found since she had been Made, if at all.

Only in the evening did Nesta truly noticed the lack of Cassian’s presence. The bungalow hummed with a static silence, as if were on standby until its owner returned. For lack of something to do, Nesta had ventured into the outhouse — a rectangular building made of flagstone and slate tiles that sat three or four metres from the house — and used the punchbag as a replacement for Cassian’s hands. That pressing weight in her lower abdomen — the pain that had been hounding her on and off for the past week — was still niggling at her, but each strike of her fists into the leather pulled her focus away from the pain until she was panting for breath, sweat dripping down her face.

Mas arrived on the second day with Roksana in tow. The little Illyrian was solemn as Mas wrestled her out of her coat, and she had scampered off as soon as she could. Nesta watched her disappear down the hallway from her vantage point on the couch, but did not move to retrieve her; Roksana had good and bad days, and Nesta who understood what that felt like, always left her be. 

Nesta had also been out of sorts lately. The gnawing pain in her stomach was fraying her nerves and she found herself short-tempered at the smallest of things. Earlier, when the hot water had run out half way through her bath, Nesta had considered throwing something — _anything_ — at the nearest wall just for the satisfaction of seeing something splinter into a million pieces. 

She could feel everything, too. No matter how hard she tried to block her emotions, they remained in the top of her throat as if they were ready to burst forth and be damned of the consequences. It made her want to be alone and although she cared deeply for Mas, Nesta intended to curl up beneath the blankets in her bed without seeing or hearing from anyone for the entire afternoon.

“Tiya, sunt tibi beni?” Mas asked as she shucked off her coat.

Flaring her wings out of the open door, the housekeeper flung off the rain that had coated them during their walk to the house. It had been relentlessly drizzling since Nesta had woken that morning, so much so, that Nesta had forgone her usual run because of it.

“What does that mean?” Nesta asked curiously, closing the book in her lap and sitting upright.

“It means, _Hello, how are you?_ ” Mas translated. She gave her scarred wings a final ruffle, before she tucked them back in tight and closed the front door.

Nesta nodded but didn’t respond. _How are you?_ was a question she typically avoided. “Does everyone in Illyria speak Illyrian as their first language?” 

The housekeeper shrugged. “Most Illyrians speak both the common tongue and Illyrian, Lady Nesta. The dialect changes slightly between camps, so certain phrases can sound slightly different.”

That made sense, Nesta supposed. Even below the wall, accents and turns of phrase differed from north to south.

“You’re from the same camp as Cassian?” Nesta asked,casting her mind back to her first day of training, when Cassian had told her about Mas’s harrowing past. 

Mas’s eyes darkened slightly but she dipped her head in answer. Nesta wondered if she was thinking about her husband… of the brutality she had endured. “Yes, but I did not know General Cassian until I came to Windhaven.”

How did the Illyrian ever travel, Nesta wondered, without her working wings? Was she, like Nesta, stranded in Windhaven unless a Fae male deigned to fly her wherever she wanted to go? Nesta had gleaned enough from Cassian to understand that widows were practically treated as invisible in Illyria. They were a financial burden on the family and many became outcasts when they lost their husbands. The result was often catastrophic. Not only were they made to endure the worst conditions half-way up the mountain, but they were only able to secure the most brutal of jobs which paid pittance. Thanks to Cassian, Mas was an exception. Her permanent position as his housekeeper meant that she was protected from being worked to the bone.

“Do you ever go back? To the camp where you are from?”

Nesta watched Mas hang up her outer garments on the hook by the door. “The camp was disbanded a few hundred years ago, but if it were still there, I would not wish to go back.”

In her stomach, Nesta felt the sharp pain of memory laced with the scent of the housekeeper. Immediately, Nesta felt guilty for asking Mas about the place where she had been subjected to such abuse, but she couldn’t help the burning question that left her mouth. “Why was it disbanded?”

Nests had dipped into some of Cassian’s books on Illyrian history but she hadn’t read about any camps being dissolved. Cassian had told her that some of the camps had been eradicated for siding with Amarantha during their dinners together, but that was too recent. 

Mas came over to pat Nesta’s face — the Illyrian smelt of roasted chestnuts and wood shavings, of warmth and love — but there was a sadness in her brown eyes. “That is a question for General Cassian, not for me. Now, would you like lunch?”  
  


* * *

  
Nesta kept to herself for the rest of the afternoon. Mas brought her lunch — and then seconds — whilst Nesta tucked into the last of the books Cassian had bought her.

She was just turning the final page when Mas poked her head around the door. “Have you seen Roksana?”

Nodding, Nesta gestured beneath the bed. She had noticed the little Illyrian disappear beneath it an hour or so ago, and apart from the occasional rustle of her wings, Nesta had almost forgotten she was there. 

Mas looked ashamed, her tan cheeks tinting pink.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised fervently, as she bent over her knees to scowl under the mattress. “Roksana, you can’t invade Lady Nesta’s privacy like this,” she scolded. “It’s time to walk home. Come on, out you pop. It’s getting dark.”

The proceeding rustle of wings and a thump against the wall indicated that Roksana did not share Mas’s sentiment for leaving the bungalow. 

After listening to the housekeeper try to coax Roksana out from under the bed for a few minutes, Nesta decided to take matters into her own hands. 

She watched Mas straighten up, her face even redder.

“It’s ok,” Nesta assured her, trying to fight back her amusement as the Illyrian opened her mouth to apologise yet again. She had never seen the housekeeper so flustered, and it took Nesta squeezing the females fingers between her own for her to concede with a nod.

Crouching beside the bed, Nesta managed to use Elain’s coloured ribbons as a means of coaxing Roksana from beneath the mattress. 

“Is everything all right?” Nesta asked with a frown, as she tied a ruby ribbon around the little girl’s wrist. Roksana was always quiet but she never usually made a fuss when it was time to go home. The youngling was more like a ghost; she tended to follow Mas around uncomplaining and mould into the background, a silent transparent presence.

Bustling back into the bedroom with Roksana’s coat in her hands, Mas said dismissively, “It’s nothing. Roksana, let go of Lady Nesta’s skirts so we can put on your coat.”

At the firm words, Roksana only tightened her grip on the fabric of Nesta’s dress. Reassuringly, Nesta smoothed a palm over wind-snarled ebony. “I’ll tie that ribbon into your hair tomorrow,” she promised, as together with Mas, she eased Roksana’s arms through the coat sleeves. 

Nesta refrained from cupping the younglings face to try and get the haunted look out of her eyes. She wondered if this was how she appeared to Cassian and Mas when she was having a particularly bad day, when they tried anything and everything to coax her out of herself. 

“She never usually acts like this,” Nesta observed, eyeing Mas shrewdly as she walked them to the door. 

“There were some males taunting the widows and orphans yesterday as we walked home,” Mas admitted. “They scared her.”

Nesta stilled. “Does Cassian know?”

Mas shook her head. “No, I didn’t want to bother him before his trip.”

“You should have told him,” Nesta scolded sharply. “He would want to know.” 

At her tone, Roksana’s hand flew up to grab Nesta’s fingers. Nesta could smell the girl’s fear from her sudden anger, and it was that scent — the sharp tang of it — that made up her mind. 

“I’ll come with you today,” Nesta said in a voice that did not offer debate, even as she softened it to calm Roksana. 

Giving the little Illyrian’s hand a final squeeze, Nesta pulled on her own coat, ignoring the sharp pain that twisted inside of her — the pain that had been nagging at her all day. 

“Come, Roksana,” she said to the little girl, holding out her hand again. “I’ll tell you a story as we walk home.”

Nesta and Mas emitted a moderated level of normalcy as they stepped out into the camp, even though Nesta’s insides were cramping and twisting in anticipation. The rain clouds had finally departed, leaving a sunset that was so brilliant Nesta stopped to marvel at it. Streaks of pink and orange and steel-grey lined the sky, illuminating the mountain pass in a warm glow. Around them, the camp moved; a living, breathing thing as the day drew to a close.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Nesta readjusted her headband so it sat tightly around her ears. The fur muffled the harsh sounds — the clanging pots, the ringing steel and the splintering crack of wood from the camp fires — but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on edge. Ignoring the heart hammering in her chest, Nesta made a point of determinedly resetting her posture. The battle fatigue was not going to beat her this time, not when she had promised Roksana that she would get her home safely.

It was that purpose alone that drove her to start walking, and as she began to tell Roksana the last of the fairytales she could remember by heart, an odd sort of calm settled over her. Her voice became a trance — a point of focus for her to concentrate on — as they weaved their way through the crowds of Illyrian’s making their way home for the evening. 

The path petered out as they passed the craftsman centre of the camp, the muddy walkway making way to wet grass and the pine trees that lined the mountain wall. Doing her best to ignore the crack of needles underfoot, Nesta squeezed Roksana’s hand reassuringly as she felt the little girl fall a few steps behind — hesitant.

“There they are again,” Mas murmured suddenly, nodding to where the uneven path started to wind its way up the mountain. “The same males as before.”

Ahead of them, leaning against the rock face with an arrogance that Nesta had only ever seen on males, were three sneering Illyrians. They were hulking brutes, their wings half-stretched and their claws open to intimidate, as they loomed over the females scurrying up the mountain pass to the cold safety of their camp - the females who could not fly, because their wings had been cut, or because they had an orphan in tow, who was too young to face the unpredictable winds.

“You should have told Cassian about this,” Nesta told Mas quietly, as she watched one of the males begin to taunt an approaching female. 

The girl was pretty with long curly hair and large almond eyes. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen in human years — an orphan rather than a widow, Nesta hoped. Nesta watched the girl scurry onto the mountain path, her pace and hunched shoulders making it evidently clear that she was frightened. 

Somehow, Nesta knew what was going to happen before it did. A bitter taste flooded her mouth just as the male nearest to the young girl spat. 

The sound clacked across the clearing and true to his aim, the saliva hit the girl’s cheek just below her right eye. Nesta watched the globule run down the girl’s shocked face, the liquid thick and slimy.

Everything in Nesta stilled — the briefest of pauses — and then undiluted fury began to roll inside of her. 

As if sensing the danger that had leapt into Nesta’s eyes, Mas reached for Roksana. The gesture was panicked. “You can say goodbye to us here, Lady Nesta.”

But Nesta was not listening. She was watching as one of the other males stepped forward as if to follow her. He leered over the young girl, and with his wings outstretched he grabbed the females wrist, yanking her back with a force that had her slamming into the rock wall with a crack. 

It came to Nesta as easy as breathing then — her power. One minute she was ice and the next she was burning with silver fire as it shot from her outstretched palm and sizzled across the clearing. Her mind felt loose and focussed all at once, an odd sense of detachment washing over her as she reached into the depths of her subconscious and pulled on some hidden knowledge, making the power that crept beneath her skin nothing but hers. Through the blazing silver heat stretched a red hot wire, and like a whip that moulded to her will, it flung towards the rock face and curled tightly around the sneering males wrist.

With a mental yank on her power, the males arm wrenched back with the snap of her command. His arm socket crunched sickeningly in her ears but Nesta did not crumple, her battle fatigue non-existent, as she said with icy fury, _“_ Do not touch her _._ ”

The two other males lurched towards Nesta but she rose her other palm in warning. Mist wreathed around it like a coiling serpent ready to strike. In that moment, Nesta was not human turned Fae but something other… something better. Ancient yet new. Protector and destroyer. Light and dark.

“Do not think,” Nesta said with deadly calm, “that I will not raze you all to the ground.” She tugged harder on her whip of fire to solidify her point and the males came to a hesitant stop as their companion gave a sharp shout of pain.

Once she was certain that they weren’t going to move, Nesta searched for the girl. She was huddled against the mountain wall as if she were hoping it would make her disappear. She was clutching her arm to her chest, her eyes blown wide in shock.

“Are you hurt?” Nesta demanded. 

She allowed her free palm to crackle in warning, lest the males think her attention wasn’t with them. In the corner of her eye, she saw them stiffen. She ignored the menacing snarls that rang around the clearing. They would not hurt her. They _could_ not hurt her. She was untouchable.

Wide-eyed, the girl shook her head. The movement was dazed and sluggish. Shock had clearly already taken its hold, but Nesta could not worry about that now. All that mattered was that she was capable of moving.

“Go,” Nesta ordered with a jerk of her chin, gesturing to the widows camp half-way up the pass. 

The girl hesitated, but Nesta ordered with a ferocity that was not to be denied, “ _Go._ ”

Nesta watched the girl scarper. She waited until the female had cleared the first ‘V’ in the path before she turned back to the males. She made the movement slow… as if she were utterly unfazed by the three hulking figures who could pin her to the ground in moments if she didn’t have fire at her fingertips.

But Nesta was nothing but calm. She may not be physically stronger than them but she had a different strength at her disposal — a strength that would beat theirs every time. 

“Let this serve as a warning,” Nesta told them coldly, as she looked each of them pointedly in the eye. “If I catch any males here taunting and abusing these females, I will personally hunt them down and set them alight until they are screaming for mercy. Do you understand me?”

“Witch,” one of the Illyrian’s spat. 

The male that had spoken stepped forward. His eyes were obsidian — as dark as the starless sky — but his glare did not effect Nesta. There was a sense of entitlement to him that told Nesta that this male had never been told no, especially not by a female. The thought made her even angrier. What cruel twist of fate gave males the ego to assume they were more worthy than their female counterparts? And why should females have to avoid going out at night in case a male thought it their birth-given right to sate their own desires or taunt someone physically weaker than themselves?

So Nesta said icily — calmly, “I’d rather be a witch than an arrogant male who is making up for his lack of wingspan by preying on the defenceless.”

With a deep snarl, the male stalked towards her. He was tall… much taller than her and his entire body was corded with the sort of muscles you only gained from vigorous training. He was covered in tattoos too, the black ink licking its way up his body and into the close-cropped hair of his scalp. And on the right side of his neck, a pink scar jagged its way along his jugular vein — the raw scar tissue protruding and angry. It looked fresh. 

Digging into that well of power, Nesta urged heat along the cord around his friend’s wrist. It was enough to sear into the skin but not to cut through bone. A hoarse grunt of pain rang around the trees and before the Illyrian with the scar could get any closer to her, Nesta flung another stream of power from her spare palm. Silver flames speared towards the approaching male, but she did not aim for his chest. No, Nesta aimed for the one thing that she knew would stop any Illyrian in their tracks. She waited until her fire was a hair's breadth from the brown membrane — close enough for him to feel the promise of heat that would damage his wings beyond repair — before she willed silver into nothing, and it dissolved in a shower of sparks. 

Stopping dead in his tracks, Nesta watched the males face contort into the ugly sort of fury that promised death. But Nesta knew he would not risk his wings, even if it did mean backing down to a female. What was it Cassian had said to her? _Illyrian’s treasure their wings over anything else._

“Leave,” Nesta clipped with the high and mighty voice of a queen dismissing her subjects. “Otherwise I will not hesitate to burn a hole through your wings so you never taste the skies again.”

The male growled; the sound was not unlike a territorial animal trying to stake claim but it lacked the bite it had moments before. 

“This is not over,” he snarled. His voice was harsh and gravelly, and it grated against Nesta’s already raw insides. To Nesta’s disbelief, he dared to take one step closer, even as her hand glowed threateningly. His voice dropped an octave so it was impossibly low, and his canines flashed as he said, “You High Fae think you are better than us, but we’ll show you.” 

Nesta did what she thought would incense him the most: she snorted. With a loud snap, she pulled back her whip until it retreated into her palms. The unleashed male stumbled, but managed to catch himself just before he fell. He cradled his wrist in his other hand. Already Nesta could see the raw pink circle around his wrist, but she felt no guilt, only a sense of having done something utterly right. 

“I’d disappear if I were you,” Nesta said icily. “The General will be back soon and I’m looking forward to telling him all about this.”

The males stared her down for a moment too long, but Nesta did not falter. She cocked an eyebrow at them as the male closest to her bared his teeth, and with a final biting snarl that snapped the air around them, they turned, slinking off between the trees.

Nesta did not take her eyes from their retreating backs. They moved with deliberate slowness; as if they were predators who had lost their meal for the night but were not planning on giving up the fight. It was that threat that had Nesta poised and ready to fight again, silver sparking at her fingertips as she watched them clear the forest and join the dirt track of the camp. The male she had whipped with her power was still clutching his injured wrist. An unconscious part of her had controlled the temperature of her fire, and whilst Nesta had not allowed her whip to burn enough to seriously maim, she had made it hot enough that she hoped he would think twice before preying on a female again.

Once the males had faded into the dusk, Nesta turned to face Mas. The housekeeper looked pale and worried, yet beneath it all was pride. It gave Nesta courage from the dark eyes that she felt on her back; the gaze of the females who had stopped to bear witness, unable to progress up the path.

Trying to ignore the stares, Nesta turned her attention to Roksana. The little Illyrian was hiding behind Mas’s legs, but she peeked out tentatively as Nesta crouched down and held out a hand. Roksana’s palm was clammy and her pupils were blown wide. In the bottom of Nesta’s twisting stomach, she could still sense the little girl’s fear alongside her own sweeping exhaustion. She had expelled too much power.

“You’re safe now,” Nesta assured Roksana, running a hand over her tangled, ebony hair. “Those males won’t be coming back. Now, let’s take you home. Why don’t you show me the way?”

It was a girl aged five who gave Nesta the courage to walk up the mountain rather then trek back to the bungalow alone. The convoluted path was treacherous, packed with melting, slushy snow and loose stone that promised to send you flying with one wrong step. Roksana used her wings to skate over the worst parts, her feet hovering only inches from the ground as she stumbled through the air. At a distance, groups of females scurried up the mountain behind them, their dark eyes still trained on her. 

“I want to know that girl is ok,” Nesta told Mas quietly, as they turned a sharp corner that set them onto a sloping crest in the path that led to the camp. “She hit her head hard.”

Ahead of them, the towering mass of grey rock that Nesta had spotted from the ground began to spear its way upwards, until finally it took the shape of a tombstone. It was a death promise amongst the harsh landscape and one that Nesta was sure had been fulfilled over and over again. How many widows had died here, she wondered, with no-one to notice that they had departed from the world other than the other outcast females beside them?

As if she could sense her train of thought, Mas squeezed Nesta’s hand. “Do not worry, I will check on the girl for you.”

The sloping path flattened out, and uneven rock stretched out to accommodate rusted steel drums and weathered looking tents that had seen better days. Around the tombstone, females in too thin clothing huddled around smaller fires to ward off the bitter cold, whilst tending to the cast-iron pots that sat on top of them. The air smelt of woodsmoke and stew, but the breeze filtered through the sort of freshness that you only encountered at great height. 

“Roksana, why don’t you take Lady Nesta to sit down,” Mas asked the young girl, gesturing to some long, rickety looking picnic benches to the right of the tombstone. 

Too tired to protest, Nesta allowed herself to be led through the camp by the hand. It was well and truly blue hour now, and Nesta had to watch her footing on the rough rock in the faded light. Thankfully, jars of fireflies and the flickering flames from the fires lit the way as she moved to the camp’s heart. Nesta tried not to flinch at every muted crack and spit of the fires that travelled through the fur of her headband. She slammed up a mental shield against them, but her steel was rusted and worn, her body too fatigued from expelling her power. She wasn’t sure how long it would hold up.

Yet despite her fatigue, with every slow and exhausted step came… something else. Nesta barely noticed it at first, but the further she progressed into the camp the more aware of it she became, until her stomach was churning and the hairs on her arms were standing on end. It made her body feel alive in a way Nesta had not felt for a very long time, and the foreign sensation of it took a while for her to dissect. Her veins hummed with pain and anger; of heartbreak and sorrow; of hardship and loss, but the emotions were not the sort that Nesta sensed from the living. There was no scent intertwined with the sensations that surmounted inside of her. No, these were the memories of emotions long-endured in this brutal widows camp; where the females had suffered unimaginable hardship and had been cast aside, untouchable.

Whilst these females had been forced to endure time and time again, the landscape hadbeen a steady witness. Emotion had long imprinted itself onto the rock, like a handprint pressed into wet clay before it was left to dry. And now, the emotions seeped up from the stone and into Nesta’s body; as if she were a worthy vessel to shoulder their agony. Her body thrummed with the energy of it, and beneath her skin — in her blood —silver surged, recharged and ready to fly.

The sensation was so overwhelming that it took Nesta a moment to register that Roksana had seated her at one of the long wooden tables. She blinked, and as she did so, a bowl of steaming stew was placed in front of her.

Startled, Nesta looked up to see the curly haired girl that had been slammed so cruelly against the cliff face. The girl smiled shyly at Nesta, bowing her head in thanks, but Nesta had enough time to note that her large, almond eyes weren’t blown wide with concussion. Behind her, a female wearing a dirty apron that had seen better days handed Nesta a misshapen, well-worn spoon, and another young orphan placed a small hunk of hard bread into Nesta’s hand.

“Eat, please,” the girl urged when Nesta just stared. “You must be hungry.”

“You must eat, diyosa, to replenish the energy you have lost.” Stern words brought Nesta back to herself. They belonged to Mas, who had come up behind the young girl and was carrying two steaming bowls. Sitting down opposite Nesta, she slid one of the bowls in front of Roksana.

Unable to find the words to voice that Nesta felt fine — that somehow the past pain and agony of others had already replenished the power she had expelled —Nesta asked the girl, “Are you injured?”

The girl shook her head at the same time her hand flew up to gingerly press against the back of her scalp.

Resting a weathered hand on the girl’s arm, Mas urged her to sit down at the table with them. “Durkhanai has a nasty bump on her head but otherwise she’s unharmed. Now eat, Lady Nesta —please. You must be hungry.”

It was true, Nesta _was_ hungry. She raised a spoon to her mouth and as she did so, the camp seemed to slowly bustle back into life. 

They ate in companionable silence. The bread was tough and the stew watery, but Nesta had never felt so at peace. The girl - Durkhanai - cast shy glances up at Nesta for the entire meal, as if she were intrigued by Nesta’s otherness: her pointed ears and elegant limbs, her lack of wings, and the silver fire that rushed beneath her skin. Nesta supposed Durkhanai had never seen someone who wasn’t Illyrian before. And whilst normally the obvious eyes on her would have Nesta baring her teeth, she found it was easy enough to ignore when she knew the intention behind it was innocent.

When the four of them had finished, Roksana tried to tug Nesta towards one of the rusted steel drums, where many females had gathered to warm their frozen limbs. The fire spat embers high into the air and Nesta pulled back, her heels digging into the stone of their own accord. She might her energy back, but her mental shield was still battered and bruised. She couldn’t go near the fire. She couldn’t —

“You should be getting back.” Mas’s words brought a relief so sharp to Nesta that her stomach twisted. Coming up beside Nesta, the housekeeper patted her affectionately on the arm. “It’s getting late.”

“Yes,” Nesta agreed quickly — too quickly — but Mas was already privy to Nesta’s fear of fire so no shame lanced through her. “Thank you for the food.”

Durkhanai darted forward to Nesta and took her hands in her own, squeezing them briefly in thanks as she bowed her head again. Her large almond eyes were a colour Nesta had never seen on an Illyrian; pure, startling green without a hint of brown. They were beautiful and Nesta wondered if those eyes had ever been her downfall; if the males had spotted them and become entranced. Beauty was not always a blessing; it meant being noticed, and sometimes being noticed meant there was greater chance of being taken advantage of.

Nesta dipped her chin at the girl in farewell, and Durkhanai smiled shyly before she faded into the crowds and was soon lost in the dark.

Running a quick hand over Roksana’s dark head in goodbye, Nesta headed towards the path that would take her back to Windhaven. She had just reached the start of the harsh descent when Mas’s voice rang out from behind her. 

“Lady Nesta.”

Nesta turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice to find Mas hurrying towards her. Once she had closed the distance, Mas cupped her rough and weathered palm to Nesta’s cheek. Her dark eyes were earnest as she said softly, “Thank you, for defending us.”

Nesta’s frown deepened. “Of course.”

Mas smiled at Nesta. It was a secret smile that sung love and a lump twisted in Nesta’s throat at the knowledge that the smile had been reserved solely for her.

“You are a gift,” Mas told her quietly. “Our fiery diyosa. We are not good at voicing these things, but what you did for the females today, they are thankful. We do not usually accept outsiders who are not widowers or orphans, but you are always welcome at this camp.” 

Speechless, Nesta watched Mas’s smile widen until her eyes shone with a sincerity that hurt. She squeezed Nesta’s fingers with her spare hand. “Please be careful getting home. General Cassian will be very angry if he finds out you have left the house after dark.”

The mention of Cassian brought Nesta back to the present. 

She snorted dismissively. “He isn’t due back until later in the evening.”

Mas hesitated for a moment, as if she were about to say something of consequence, but in the end she only asked, “You can still use that power of yours if you need to?”

Lifting a hand, Nesta showed Mas the mist that swirled there — the power that was ready to strike despite the fact that she should be drained. “I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian flies home from Forktail to find Nesta absent from the bungalow...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday my lovely readers! I bring you protective, territorial AND caring Cassian all in one chapter. You are welcome...!
> 
> Would love to know what you think. Last week may have lacked Cassian but I hope this week more than makes up for it.
> 
> Comments and kudos always appreciated :) And apologies for any typos etc etc. 8000+ words takes a long time to edit!

** Chapter Fifteen  
Cassian **

The visit to Forktail was as draining as Cassian had expected. Azriel stayed with him to oversee what was left of the aerial legion that first day, only discreetly slipping off for a few hours so he could visit his contacts. His brother’s shadowy presence during their war meetings had given Cassian the strength he needed to push down his guilt and fall into the role of General. He exuded authority as he spoke strategy and formation with Lord Condor so they could continue their work at getting the squadron back into the air. In the afternoons, Cassian took to the skies, enforcing drill after drill with the young males who were looking to partake in the Rite next year. The bitter knowledge that they would lose more males in the bloodshed then was necessary sat heavy within him — Mother Above they couldn’t afford to lose any more soldiers — but it was how they would earn their siphons, and they needed siphons on the battlefield.

Traditionally, Forktail was Windhaven’s closest alliance amongst the Illyrian camps and Cassian had kept them close over the years because of the excellence of their aerial legion. The problem was that Condor knew Forktail’s worth — it made he and his circle of Illyrian cronies cruelly hostile when they wanted to be— and Cassian spent the two days he was there mentally ripping them all apart bit by bit as they insulted and threw blame at him at every turn. By the end of that first day, Cassian had found himself exhausted from continually asserting dominance all the while trying to wrestle down the suffocating sensation of guilt that he was to blame for the depleted legion in the first place.

At night, when Cassian was in bed, he thought of the words Nesta had said to him: _it’s not your fault_. Had she known that it was what he had needed to hear? That somebody did not hold him accountable for the lives of his soldiers as they turned to nothing but ash before his eyes and tossed away on the wind? Azriel’s spies had informed them that the discontent was spreading with discomforting ease within Forktail, not just amongst the mourning families but warriors as well. It didn’t help that there had been a recent kerit attack, either. The damn beasts had ripped their way through enough of the females and orphans before they had been decimated and scattered by the warriors on patrol. The attacks had only adding fuel to the fire of discontent: where was their High Lord’s protection whilst he sat on his comfortable throne in the City of Starlight?

A part of Cassian could not blame the Illyrian’s for their line of thinking. Because the matter of fact was that protection should be sufficient enough that the chittering beasts could not wander into the bustling camps. He could also not blame Condor for giving him a hard time for the loss of his fleet. Cassian should never have deserted his soldiers on the battlefield, not when it was his duty to fight by their side. In fact, if he really dared himself to think about it, he should not have heard Nesta scream his name at all; the sound should have been swallowed by the screams of battle, rather than spearing towards him like the sharpest of arrows. 

Everything had locked into place for him after that. The life he unfolded before him in what he thought were his dying moments only had Nesta in it, and when she had lain over his broken body ready to die with him rather than run, he’d thought that wherever they passed onto they would be together. 

Nothing could have provided him with more solace as he prepared to fill his lungs with his last breath… Yet, that was another thing he was wrong about, he supposed… Not that it mattered now. Nesta had made it very clear that she had wanted nothing to do with him in that way after the war. And when he had tried to broach the subject a few days back — to apologise for disappearing on her, for not fighting for her — she had only walked away from him. 

Cassian _had_ tried once or twice, but Nesta had been broken and hollow, as if someone had carved out her insides and left only a shell. He had taken it personally — had not thought beyond the wound that festered behind his ribcage at her flat silence — rather than seeing it for what it truly was: a cry for help.

Whilst there may have been a myriad of reasons for Nesta drawing a line in the sand, Cassian’s stupidity for not seeing beyond his wounded pride was his biggest failure. His next was Mor. He suspected his friend was a big part of it — too big a part of it — and his stupidity made him want to kick himself for not making things clearer to Nesta. That whilst he and Nesta barely knew one another, he had lived five hundred years and had never felt more alive when she spat at him.

Yet despite Nesta’s rebuttal, Cassian was finding it harder and harder to be away from her. He supposed it was the proximity of living with her — of learning about her moods and quirks that made him want her even more: how Nesta dog-eared her favourite pages when she was reading but bookmarked where she left off; the way she pretended she didn’t love Illyrian food even though her eyes shuttered at the first bite; the softness in her voice that she only reserved for Roksana; the arrowed wrinkles in her nose when she glared at him…

The knowledge that she was home without him had Cassian restless; the anxiety deep and twisting as it moved beneath his skin. And in the periphery of his mind, there she was. Always. Just out of reach. 

It was utterly ridiculous considering some days she still barely spoke to him. He had made unprecedented progress, he knew, and a month ago when he’d shown Nesta the stars at Tarrunda, he’d thought for the first time that she could truly be happy in Illyria. That she could learn to love it.

He’d started to doubt that optimism since.

Unless he had business elsewhere they still trained every morning at the top of that mountain, yet there was something recently that was _off._ And it wasn’t just because of their recent fallings out. The fact of the matter was that Nesta smelt different. It started as the most subtle of changes but slowly over the course of a few weeks, that scent Cassian had become used to — that was woven into the very fabric of his being — altered, slowly but surely. At first, Cassian thought he was imagining it, but as the days became weeks he grew more certain.

Nesta had been more short-tempered, too — which was no small feat — and she kept to her rooms, which made him feel as if they had taken two steps backwards. At first he had relished in her fire and riled her when he could, but he’d soon learnt that this wasn’t like Nesta’s usual flames. It was angrier — far angrier — and that power of her rose to it. He could feel it restlessly crawling under her skin as if it were pacing, and so he trained her harder every morning until she expelled that energy into the sky. When she did it _raged…_ ferocious. 

The Illyrian’s had learnt not to patrol over the mountain in the early morning because of it. 

Sometimes Cassian could swear he could feel her too. Phantom emotion burning deep and sudden in his gut, as if Cassian were wishfully glimpsing beneath that expressionless mask. And on that second afternoon he had started to feel it: pain. Fresh and sharp and not his own. He had called his trip a few hours short because of it and bolted into the sky as soon as he could, his wings booming across the mountains as he tracked his way home. Not bothering to contemplate how he could feel her despite their distance, or indeed, whether it was actually all in his head. 

When he had finally landed in Windhaven the yellows, pinks and oranges of dusk were fading into the midnight blue night sky. Stalking into the house, Cassian had not expected to find it empty… 

In hindsight, he was willing to admit that was when he lost all sense of himself. 

Barking her name, Cassian had searched the bungalow for her in vain. Embers still lay in the log burner in her bedroom — an indication that she wasn’t long gone — and Cassian was just about to stalk out into the camp and track her down by scent when the magic at the front door clicked.

Nesta’s face was flushed from the cold when she stepped inside. Rather than stopping to marvel at the fact that Nesta had left the house of her own accord after two months of confinement, Cassian came down on her like a wind in a hurricane. “Where have you been?” 

His words came out as a growl and he flew towards her, the warrior in him furiously scanning her body for sign of injury. When he found nothing wrong, he turned to scent. Inhaling her on the breeze he almost sagged with relief at the lack of males or alcohol. Cassian only smelt Nesta — the vanilla musk of old paper and jasmine — and that slight tang of something else. It was stronger — much stronger — than when he had left her. 

Nesta did not flinch at his tone as she shut the front door, but the light in her eyes was replaced by something distant as she calmly removed her headband before starting on the buttons of her coat. The deliberate measure to her movements did nothing to placate him, if anything, it riled him even more. Of all the times for her to be headstrong, this was not one of them, especially given he had watched females and children burn on the pyres that morning at Forktail, their bodies torn into a tangle of limbs and guts by teeth and claws.

“ _Nesta,_ ” he barked, ordering her to explain. 

“I went out.” Her unhelpful, clipped words told him that despite her composed exterior she was anything but calm. White spots danced in front of his vision. Did she know how worried he had been? Did she know what could have happened to her? That he had left early because he sensed something was wrong only to find her gone from the house, when he had strictly told her not to leave after dark.

“ _Nesta_ ,” he commanded again, closing the distance between them until he was looking down at her with a stormy expression that usually had Illyrian’s doing his bidding, “Where. Have. You. Been.”

“You keep telling me to leave the house, so I left,” she informed him coldly. She levelled him with a glare before she turned to hang up her outer garments on the hook by the door.

“I told you,” Cassian gritted out between clenched teeth, “that it is not safe to go out after dark.”

Nesta whirled on the spot, and finally her expression cracked to reveal the anger beneath it. “Yet it is ok for Mas and Roksana to do so? She is a child.”

“They are _Illyrian_ ,” he said angrily, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You are High Fae and the Illyrian’s here think you are a _witch_. Do you know what a threat that makes you? What they do to _females_ who they see as a threat? And that’s not even taking into consideration what beasts could be prowling at the edge of the camp—” 

“Speaking of arrogant Illyrian assholes,” Nesta seethed, glared up at him with the promise of death, “I’ve already dealt with three this evening and it now appears I’m sharing breathing space with a fourth. Get out of my face.”

And after every punctuated word, Nesta turned sharply on her heel and slammed the door of her bedroom so hard that plaster rained down from the ceiling. 

Nostrils flaring , Cassian was nothing but a blur of colour as he threw open her door without a moment’s thought. Nesta whirled on the spot, her eyes flashing with rage, that silver mist swirling around her, readying to strike…

“How _dare_ —“ Nesta seethed as he stalked towards her.

“What do you mean you have already dealt with three arrogant Illyrian assholes?” Cassian demanded.

He fought himself to breathe, to tell himself that she appeared unharmed as that primal part of him thrashed and snarled, already calculating how long it would take him to hunt down the males responsible and make them suffer. 

Nesta grimaced and the expression was so at odds on her beautiful face that he practically stumbled towards her. 

“Just please tell me,” Cassian rasped, closing his fingers around her wrists, not caring if that power hit him and decimated the house, “are you — did you get hurt? Because I swear to the Mother Nesta, that I will hunt them down and tear them limb from limb if they lay a finger on you.”

His sudden change from rage to concern clearly caught her off guard, and those silver tendrils vanished into thin air. 

Blinking at him, Nesta shook her head as she wrenched herself free from his grasp. “What? No. I walked Mas and Roksana up the mountain you overbearing brute.”

Now it was his turn to frown. “But I felt—” He stopped, unable to bring himself to broach the subject. “What did the males look like?”

Cassian listened intently as she described them, his attention snagging at the description of the scar. His expression turned stormy then. He knew that bastard. Ragar was the son of a local lord who had a track record of brutality both in and out of the sparring ring. He had fought in the war — the scar was a product of Hybern — and Cassian had used the last dregs of his siphon to stop the bleeding until the male could see a healer. Ragar was the worst kind of entitled bastard — he was full of ideology that he wasn’t clever enough to identify the holes in, but came from a wealthy enough family that other Illyrian’s were likely to listen to him. All in all, he had the potential to become very dangerous.

Cassian regretted saving his life now, but they had needed every soldier in that war and although Ragar had yet to acquire his siphons, every male had counted. 

Nesta frowned at the cloudy expression that had no doubt fallen like a shadow across his face. “You know him?” she asked. 

“Unfortunately,” Cassian bit out. He wanted to reach for her hand again, to touch her and feel the warmth of her skin against his fingers. Just the thought of her slim frame dwarfed by Ragar and his friends made him want to burn with rage. 

He crossed his arms firmly across his chest instead. “Tell me what happened from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.” 

“I walked Mas and Roksana home,” she admitted. “Roksana was too scared to leave the house. Mas said there were some males taunting the females as they walked up the mountain to the widows camp.” Nesta folded her arms across her chest, mirroring his own posture. The action was guarded... protective and it made his heart clench. “They grabbed this young girl...” He watched her worry her bottom lip between her teeth. “She could never have defended herself. One of the males slammed her against the mountain wall so I just… used my power on them without thinking until they left.”

“You fought them off?” he croaked after he had probed her for more details about her magic. Pride swelled in his chest until he was almost overwhelmed by it. “Mother Above, Nesta,” he breathed.

“I’m not going to apologise for defending those females,” she snapped stubbornly, confusing his awe with exasperation.

Cassian surveyed her — that straight, defiant posture, her hard expression, the proud lift of her chin… 

He shook his head. “No,” he agreed firmly. “And why should you? I think what you did is —” he broke off and when he next spoke his voice was hoarse. “I think it’s fucking _amazing_.”

He watched her blink in surprise, the shadow behind her eyes calming until they were more blue than grey. 

She clamped her lips together as she looked resolutely at the wall over his shoulder and Cassian swore her sharp cheekbones were tinged with the faintest of pinks. “Do you think they will still harass them? The women — _females_ , I mean.”

“Not after I’ve dealt with them,” he promised firmly. “I’ll be back.”

Nesta stepped towards him as he started to leave. “You’re going now? You just came home.”

“There’s no better time.”

Nesta looked like she was going to say something else but she closed her mouth, giving a curt nod instead.

He hesitated. Their stalemate gave him an opening that he wouldn’t hesitate to seize with both hands. 

Levelling his gaze with hers, Cassian searched that blue to try and gage how she would react.

“I know you can handle yourself and I hate — I really don’t want to tell you what to do, but I’d prefer if you stayed inside after dark unless you’re with me. Is that — would that be ok? I don’t trust the males and there have been some recent animal attacks across the camps. There have been a lot of casualties…”

Silence fell as he trailed off, unsure. He cocked his head, trying and failing to read the blank canvas before him.

After a moment that felt like minutes but was more akin to seconds, Nesta asked, “Will you make sure that Mas and Roksana can get home safely? That _all_ the females are able to get home safely?” 

“Yes,” he promised. “I’ll put guards by the mountain day and night to ensure all of the females are unbothered.”

She nodded, her expression suddenly contemplative. “And I can go out in the day?”

“Always,” he assured her. “I don’t… you’re not imprisoned here.”

He expected her to snort or cut him off with a smart comment, but Nesta did neither. 

Instead, she agreed. “Fine. Should I come with you? So you know it’s the right males?”

“I know who they are,” he promised. “They’re young arrogant pricks who need to be put in their place. Unless —“ He straightened and his voice was embarrassingly hopeful, as he asked, “Did you want to come with me?”

“No. I—” Nesta broke off as her features twisted. “I don’t feel well,” she admitted quietly.

Disappointment would have washed over him if Cassian hadn’t witnessed how pale Nesta had become. Every time Nesta expelled her magic in vast quantity, the life seemed to leech out of her and since she’d arrived back home, the blood had completely left her cheeks.

So Cassian just shot her a crooked smile designed to put her at ease. “That’s ok,” he assured her. “I’ll be back soon.”  
  


* * *

It was in the early hours of the morning that Cassian sat bolt upright in bed. Usually it was a nightmare that dragged him out of the first throes of sleep, but for once it wasn’t the cause. 

Something was wrong. He knew it in his bones. 

It only took a moment for the sensation to strike him deep in the stomach. It was the same phantom pain that had made him take to the skies the day before. It came from within him at the same time that it was separate — muted. It didn’t stop him from feeling it though. The sensation was akin to having a fist tighten and twist around his gut. It hurt.

Cassian was out of bed and at Nesta’s door in seconds, his whole body moving on instinct. The rap of his knuckles on the wood of her door was harsh in the otherwise sleeping house, but he knew she was awake. 

“Nesta,” he called, “can I come in?”

No reply. Cassian was just contemplating sliding down the door and waiting until she spoke to him when he felt it again. It was fiercer this time; the sensation lancing through his core with an intensity that almost knocked the breath out of him. It was far, far worse than yesterday. 

Panic rose like bile in his throat and he banged a fist against the door, harder this time. “ _Nesta_.”

“Go away.” 

Finally, Nesta’s voice floated beneath the door, but it lacked the fire that usually laced her words as if they were threaded between the letters. Instead it was small and weak — brittle, almost, as if parts of Nesta were coming apart at the seams. It was a stark contrast to the evening before, when she had laid into Ragar and his cronies. Cassian wished he could have been there to have seen her in all her magnificent glory. Threatening the males rather than ripping them apart limb by limb had used every ounce of willpower. He’d kept the image of Nesta pale but well, her face flushed as she stepped inside the bungalow in the forefront of his mind as he had laid into them. It had been enough to reign him in, and whilst he knew that Devlon would be fuming at him in the morning for pummelling three of his warriors into walking bruises, Cassian could not find it in himself to care. 

A sharp intake of breath reached Cassian’s ears, breaking him out of memory. The sound was so strangled that his instincts kicked into overdrive. And when he smelt blood — _her_ blood — well… he barged into Nesta’s room without a second thought. 

He found Nesta in bed, a heap of blankets piled around her waist. She was curled in a tight ball, her face beaded with sweat and tight with pain.

“What is it?” Cassian ordered immediately, his nostrils flaring as he stalked over to the bed. 

Leaning over her, he pressed a palm to her sweaty forehead. She looked sick… very sick. Her skin was ghostly pale and although she frowned in irritation at his touch, she did not bat him away.

Assessing her through the blankets as if he were surveying an injured soldier on the battlefield, Cassian demanded, “Where does it hurt, Nesta?”

Nesta opened her mouth to speak but a strangled moan caught in her throat instead. She turned over onto her back — no doubt in a bid to get away from him — and as she moved that smell hit him again. It was the tang he’d been scenting on her for days, and this time it was metallic.

Cassian stared at her… at the hands she had pressed to her lower abdomen. And then it all clicked into place. 

Over the years, Cassian had very little experience dealing with the female cycle. Mor had grumbled about it openly of course. He had watched his friend sip ginger tea more times than he could count as she grimaced in pain and reminded he, Rhys and Azriel that males had it easy. And of course Feyre more recently… well, she had suffered awfully he knew. Rhys had been so catatonic with worry that he had called Madja out, but apart from the tried and tested herbal remedies, the healer hadn’t had any fast solutions other than to knock Feyre out until it was all over.

Whilst Feyre had refused to do it, Cassian knew that Rhys would have preferred to have his mate free of pain. And from looking at Nesta now — her face contorted in agony — it seemed she was going to suffer like her sister.

Cassian had never lived with a female like he had Nesta. In the course of his life, he’d had many lovers, but on the whole he’d stayed away from serious relationships. Work and family had always come first and foremost. And there was also the small matter that he had never put any concrete roots down in Velaris. That in itself seemed to speak volumes to his lovers after a few years and they inevitably lost interest… if they hadn't already got fed up with the skewed balance of his work and home life before that. So he’d never learnt to notice the subtle change in a females scent as their hormones shifted and their new cycle began.

Cursing his stupidity for not seeing the signs, Cassian sat on the bed beside her. The fact that she was in too much pain to protest spoke volumes. Her eyes remained squeezed shut, her hands clamped to her ovaries like they were being wrenched from her insides by invisible hands.

“Nesta, what usually helps?” he asked. 

He tried to keep his tone matter-of-fact rather than concerned but failed as Nesta gasped again, her body curling back in on itself as she doubled over. And even though logic told Cassian this was not a life or death situation, he found himself starting to rise to the panic clawing at his throat. 

“What helps?” he demanded.

Nesta only shook her head at him. 

Cassian wanted to snap at her; to tell her that this wasn’t something to be embarrassed about, that he wanted to help her if she’d just let her damn walls down. But Cassian was learning that losing his temper with Nesta was not always the best route. He was also learning that her upbringing in the human realm ran deep, and their tendency towards discretion meant that she was raised to hide these sorts of things; to be ashamed of the very thing that meant she could provide life. 

Unfortunately for Nesta, the enhanced senses of Fae didn’t allow for much privacy. He knew it would take time for her to adjust to the new world she had been thrust into — to overcome her deeply engrained upbringing. Hell, he still saw himself as an unworthy bastard and he’d been alive for centuries, so he couldn’t expect months to undo years worth of beliefs and values.

So Cassian took a deep breath and tried again. “Your sister has a really hard time with her cycle, too. Is there anything that helped you last time?”

Steel blue eyes opened to stare at him, and Cassian watched her pupils dilate, pushing her irises to the periphery. They were like open tunnels into her soul — a rare and precious moment that he wouldn’t — couldn’t — waste.

The pain seemed to relent for a second, because Nesta seemed to find words that she forced out through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what will help. I —” 

A laboured pause, a sharp intake of breath and the slightest of whimpers. The sound was so unlike Nesta. Even in their training she barely made a sound. She was an Illyrian through and through in that way. 

“I haven’t had one as Fae yet.”

Cassian frowned. Nesta had been Fae well over a year. By his calculations she should have had at least two cycles by now.

“I didn’t eat,” she choked out in explanation, and then she curled in on herself even further, her knuckles turning white as she clutched her knees to her chest. 

It took a moment for the words to hit home and then in his mind’s eye, he saw the sharp bones, sunken cheeks and hollow eyes from those first weeks Nesta had stayed with him. 

During that year when they had all left her to her own devices and she had pushed them away so effectively, she had been slowly starving herself. Combined with her battle fatigue and her obvious signs of depression, it was no wonder Nesta hadn’t had a cycle yet. And whilst she was slowly putting the weight back on, her appetite still had a tendency to fall away when she was having a hard time battling her many demons. 

Pushing the hair back from her face, Cassian rested a palm back on her forehead. He needed to get her out of her sweaty clothes and change the sheets.

“You’re covered in sweat,” Cassian told her carefully, silently finishing the rest of the sentence — _and blood._ “Do you think you can get into the bath? The warm water might help with the cramps. I can bring you some ginger tea, too.”

Nesta snarled at him as he started to tug at the blankets — the sound not unlike an injured animal protecting themselves from further harm. It had more bite to it than usual and Cassian rose his hands in surrender. He should have known that she wouldn’t like that.

“I’ll leave you to get up then,” he clipped matter-of-factly, “but if you haven’t made it to the bathroom in five minutes I’ll carry you myself.”

That seemed to will Nesta into slow, pained action. By the time she arrived in the bathroom she was practically on her hands and knees. She surveyed the bath full of water and bubbles like it was a challenge, her jaw clenching and unclenching as she gritted her teeth.

It took all of his willpower not to cave and assist her.

Nesta seemed to know what he was thinking. “I don’t need you to help me get in,” she snapped weakly. 

Cassian raised an eyebrow but said nothing. 

Ignoring her glare, he screwed the cap of the chamomile scented oil he’d put into the water. He used it on his sore muscles after particularly gruelling sparring sessions and he thought it might help with the cramping.

He shot her a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Call me if you need me. I’ll make you some tea.”

Blood didn’t faze Cassian in the slightest and he barely bat an eyelid as he stripped her bed of the crimson-stained sheets and lay down new ones. He had been up to his knees in blood and shit and gore on the battlefield enough times to know that blood was just blood. 

He couldn’t deny that the sight of it brought a relief so strong he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. Cassian very much doubted that Nesta had been in the right frame of mind to take a contraceptive tonic as she bedded male after male — or indeed to ask if _they_ were taking one. Cassian got the impression she had gone days without knowing where she’d been and who she’d been doing, as if her mind had been wiped clean for hours on end. And whilst Fae pregnancies were rare, it gave him peace of mind to know that Nesta wouldn’t be facing anything else life changing. He didn’t know if he could face it either. When Cassian had dared to let himself think of it in the past, his heart had wrung itself so horribly that he’d thrown himself into the sparring ring until the pain went away. His opponents had never fared well in those fights. 

After sourcing some clean linens and stripping them down for her, Cassian lit the log burner in her room. As promised, he had installed it a month back, but Nesta only used it sporadically. Cassian didn’t mind. It was there for her when she could face it, and when she couldn’t, there were always plenty of blankets to keep her warm. 

Shrugging on a tunic, Cassian padded into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove. He stared out of the kitchen window as he waited for the water to boil, surveying the blue hues that signalled dawn was still a few hours away. There was no point in going back to bed now, so Cassian steeped some ginger into a mug of hot water, before heading back to see how Nesta was doing.

“I have tea,” he offered lamely from outside the bathroom door. He’d made a point of putting bubbles into the water to protect her modesty, but he’d be damned if he walked in there without her permission. 

“I’m coming in,” Cassian warned, but Nesta was huffing breaths between gritted teeth when he shouldered the door open and paid him no notice. Her hair hung wet and lank against her temples. Her face was damp with a mixture of sweat and steam. 

“Here,” he offered. “Sip this, it might help.”

Nesta’s hands rose out of the water to grip the earthenware mug. It was, Cassian noticed, the exact colour of her eyes. Had he bought them unconsciously at the market because they had reminded him of her? The thought hadn't even crossed his mind before now, but the speckled dusky blue was a near perfect match. It was the colour of the sky after rain, of the calm as the clouds started to make way for the sun.

Those grey-blue eyes slid to his now. “You can go back to bed.”

Shaking his head, Cassian lied, “I couldn’t sleep anyway. Call me if you need me, I’ll be in the living room going over some paperwork.”  
  


* * *

  
Cassian lasted an hour before he sought her out again. He had listened to the water slosh around the tub whilst he pretended to read through Az’s most recent reports. They were planning the security for the Night Court’s visit to Dawn in a few weeks time, and although Cassian had been plenty, it never hurt to re-familiarise himself with the palace layout and exit points.

Calling her name softly, Cassian had pushed open the door to the bathroom to find Nesta huddled over her knees. The bare skin of her back was orange in the flickering Faelight. She was still too thin; he could see all of the knots of her vertebrae pushing through the tight skin of her back and it made his stomach twist uncomfortably. He saw it as a personal failure that he hadn’t got her weight back up, even though he knew it wasn’t an issue that would resolve itself overnight.

He leant against the doorframe with mock casualness. “The water must be cold by now.”

Nesta did not turn or acknowledge his presence, she only let out an agonised whoosh of breath which turned into a low moan. 

“Come on sweetheart,” he coaxed. “I’ve had the burner going in your room. It’s nice and warm in there.” Then he grinned wolfishly, knowing she’d sense his smirk without looking at him. “Actually, you needn’t bother putting on any clothes—”

“Don’t call me that. _”_ Nesta panted every word, each a staccato of pain. _Interesting_. It had been a while since she had told him off for calling her _sweetheart_. He had thought she’d come to rather like it, not that she’d ever admit it. “And you’re a pig. I can barely move and all you can think about is getting your dick wet.”

_That_ response was as swift as a knee to the balls and he tried not to choke. He’d never heard Nesta say the word dick before — he never thought that he _would_. But the Nesta who was raised to be a lady had been hardened by war and a year of fucking her way through Velaris. She had changed. And whilst her comment hurt, there was something about it that thrilled him too. 

“I was teasing,” Cassian replied coldly. Calmly. “You know that I was. Now get out of the bath or I’ll haul you out myself.”

Nesta did not move. She glanced sideways at him from where her forehead was resting on her crossed arms. “If I move i’ll be sick,” she admitted. 

Striding to the window, Cassian cracked it open. Bitter, bracing air raced around the room as the wind crept through the opening. It smelt like the promise of snow. Cassian would bet all of his money that there was a snow storm on the way. Growing up in these mountains had given him a knack for scenting the weather and extended periods of living in Velaris had never changed that.

Nesta lifted her head slightly to stare at him — she was most likely wondering why he was making the room colder when she was already sitting in tepid water. 

“Fresh air might help,” he explained.

Bending down beside the tub, he felt Nesta stiffen. Keeping his eyes trained firmly on her face, he ignored the pebbles of goosebumps that littered her skin and the generous swell of her cleavage.

“May I take your hands? Or will you punch me in the jaw?” he asked.

He shot her a cheeky, lopsided grin just as her brow furrowed — whether in confusion or pain he wasn’t sure.

“I haven’t decided,” Nesta bit out, but the words stuttered and died in her throat as her breath caught — a fresh wave of pain twisting through her.

“A risk I’ll have to take,” he quipped, prying a wet arm from her knees. He turned her hand over so her palm faced the ceiling. “There are pressure points in the wrists that can help to suppress nausea,” he told her quietly, placing three gentle fingers just below her wrist line. “They are just here, between the tendons.” 

He pushed his thumb lightly into her soft skin and then did the same with her other hand, maintaining the pressure on both. Nesta was unusually pliant the whole time and he could tell that she was putting all of her focus into forcing down the rising nausea and trying not to make a sound. She hated to be seen as weak. To be pitied.

“Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Long breaths, that’s it,” he ordered as her silence cracked, a low moan escaping from her lips. She buried her head further into her arms and Cassian refrained from pulling her wet, lank hair over her shoulder. 

Searching for something to distract her, Cassian said, “I found those males last night.”

“Good,” Nesta breathed out. The sound was shaky. 

“And I’ve posted soldiers at the bottom of the mountain as part of the general patrol.”

A small nod of the head was the only indication Nesta had heard. She followed it with a whimper.

“Those males are a pain in my ass,” he added, grasping for conversation that would distract her. “They’ve been spitting shit and spreading dissent in the camp about the war. Ragar is the worst — the one with the scar — the other two follow him like castrated puppies. Ragar is the son of one of the local lord’s so he’s been born with a stick of entitlement shoved up his ass.”

A whoosh of air that sounded more like a snort.“If you can’t control them, I’d be happy to burn them to cinders.” 

Muffled words but Nesta sounded a little stronger. 

Cassian barked a laugh. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

A silence followed and he allowed her a few minutes of laboured breathing, before he asked, “How’s the nausea?”

“Horrible,” Nesta said tightly, “but a little better than before.”

“Let’s get you out before it gets worse then. Do you need any help—”

“What and make your day?” Nesta sniped, cutting him off. “Absolutely not.”

“A male can only try,” Cassian quipped wryly before backing out of the room with his hands in the air.

Once Nesta was back in bed, Cassian endured another hour of hearing her agonised pants before he broke.

“I’m going to call for a healer,” he told her. He had made himself lean against the doorframe to her bedroom because he didn’t trust himself not to mother her if he stepped across the threshold. 

Doubling over, Nesta groaned. She hadn’t commented on the strips of linen he’d left by her bed, but they were gone by the time he’d come back to check on her. He’d brought her more tea but it remained cold and untouched on the bedside table. 

“Over my dead body,” Nesta said eventually — it was halfway between a snarl and a pant. A golden rope of hair fell across her face and he resisted the urge to close the distance and tuck it behind her ear. “What are they going to do? Remove my ovaries?”

“You’re in agony,” Cassian bit back. “We should at least check—"

“If they couldn’t help my dear sister, then they can’t help me. Now get out. Don’t you train the females at dawn?”

* * *

Given that it took four hours to fly to Velaris from Windhaven, Cassian was surprised at the efficiency of the messenger he had flagged down at dawn. They had clearly thrown all their energy into the flight, and it was only just midday when Feyre and Elain materialised out of thin air a few feet from the back door. 

Cassian set down the fresh mug of steaming chai he had been about to bring Nesta. She had barely touched the ginger tea he had made her but he’d hoped that she might sip her favourite drink, which as the traditional Illyrian recipes willed it, already had a fair amount of ginger in it anyway.

Feyre’s eyes met his through the kitchen window and Cassian raised a hand in greeting at the same time that his stomach dropped. 

His note had been short and simple but he realised he should have been clearer. He wanted Elain _only_. He was already treading a thin line asking for her, but Cassian hadn’t known what to do. Nesta’s pain had only gotten worse, and when he’d come back from training the girls he had found her head in the toilet. She had snarled feebly at him as he held her hair back, but it had only been cut off as she retched again into the basin. So Cassian had summoned the only person who had made Nesta softer, even if their relationship had been strained since the war. 

He had _not_ called his High Lady. What was it Nesta had spat? _My dear sister._ No, it was important that Feyre didn’t set foot in the house. Nesta had an uncanny ability for sensing the presence of others. She’d always known when he had been nearby, even when he’d been circling the skies.

Feyre must have read his expression as he stalked out of the house to greet them. “I was the only one who could bring Elain. Az and Mor are away, Rhys is in meetings all day and Amren is… well, _Amren_ ,” Feyre said quickly.

Cassian nodded tightly and forced a half smile onto his face as Elain broke the distance to hug him. He lifted an arm in a side hug and gave the slight female a squeeze. Elain was as lovely and willowy as a fawn but in her pale lilac gown she looked out of place amongst the harsh landscape. 

Unlike Nesta who would snarl and stand her ground against his race, Elain was far too sweet for Illyria.

“Oh Cassian, how is she?” Elain asked softly, peering up at him with concern.

He grimaced. “Not good.”

“Does she know i’m coming?” Elain asked hesitantly.

“No,” Cassian admitted reluctantly. He watched Elain’s face pale and wondered who had intercepted the letter — she or Feyre. “But she needs you, even if she won’t admit it to herself.” 

After a pause, Cassian added lightly, “If it helps, she can’t really move and she’s too weak to put up a fight.”

Feyre snorted at that, which seemed to break through Elain’s worry. 

She grinned sheepishly. “I brought supplies.” Elain held up a canvas bag. “Can we go in?”

“Of course,” Cassian replied, but his eyes flicked to Feyre who was already watching him with a look that told him she knew what was coming. His expression turned grave. “Your sister will know if you set foot in the house.”

He winced at his words, at the way he was effectively barring his High Lady — his friend — from his own house. “Sorry. Just… can you wait a minute? I’ll show Elain in and then come back.”

“It’s ok,” Feyre assured him, but her eyebrows knitted together in the way that Nesta’s did, her skin dimpling into a beautiful expression of anguish. “I know she doesn’t want to see me.”

“I think it’s best to start with Elain,” Cassian corrected, even though Feyre was right. He looked to the middle Archeron sister. “I thought she’d prefer you to be with her than me, especially as she has written to you recently. She doesn’t want me looking after her.”

“I wouldn’t take it personally. Nesta doesn't like anybody looking after her,” Elain consoled him as they headed towards the house. 

The way Elain spoke made Cassian wonder how matter-of-fact he’d managed to sound. Worry was still eating away at him. Even training the girls had done little to take his mind off her. His stomach had twisted uncomfortably for the entire hour and eventually he had called the session short. He had hurried back to the bungalow to find Nesta throwing her guts up in the bathroom. She had allowed him to tie her hair back from her face and carry her to bed, her body so weak with pain she hadn’t even had it in her to snarl at him as he tucked her beneath the blankets.

The back door sung beneath Cassian's palm as his power clicked the locks and he beckoned Elain inside. 

“She’s been sick a few times,” he explained to Elain as he toed off his boots. In his hurry, he hadn’t bothered to do up the laces. “She won’t eat and she’s only sipped ginger tea.”

Elain’s eyes were wide as she took in the kitchen and Cassian tried not to bristle. He knew his little bungalow wasn’t much but he had built and designed it, he had poured his time and effort into it to give himself something that was his. And although there was no scrutiny in Elain’s eyes, he always felt as if he were a bastard with a lot of money he didn’t deserve. The last thing he’d wanted to do was to build a house which boasted of wealth when his people had so little. So he had made it modest and homely. He had made it _his._

But Elain only smiled at him. It was apprehensive — no doubt knowing she’d soon be seeing her sister — but genuine.

“Feyre and I didn’t eat much either,” she said as she flushed. “It’s… not going to be a pleasant week for Nesta. This is… it’s really her first?”

Cassian nodded. “I think her failure to eat combined with the stress of the war messed with the natural course of things.”

A haunted look slid over Elain’s eyes then so Cassian smiled encouragingly. Did she have nightmares of the moment she had thrust Truth-Teller into the King of Hybern’s neck, Cassian wondered? Or did she just relive and relive how she had been kidnapped not once but twice from her bed?

The thought softened the tense set of his shoulders. All three Archeron sisters had suffered beyond imagination. No wonder each of them had struggled in the aftermath. Yet… Nesta was the only sister who had been punished for how she dealt with her trauma, him included. And it was wrong — unforgivably wrong — that just because Nesta had a thorny personality that she had been judged harshly rather than being forgiven for how she coped with the awful things that had happened to her. 

The realisation did not sit well with him. Cassian supposed it shouldn’t, that was what regret was.

Beckoning Elain to follow him, Cassian showed her through the living space. “She’s in bed,” he explained softly.

The door was still slightly ajar from when he’d last left. Calling Nesta’s name, he pushed it open wider so they could slip inside.

“Oh Nesta,” Elain breathed softly. 

Those doe eyes of hers widened as she took in her sister curled in agony amongst the twisted blankets: the gritted teeth; the rattled breaths; the fresh sweat that was already coating her sister’s skin. 

At the sound of Elain’s voice, Nesta’s eyes snapped to the door. Those steel-blue eyes were almost disbelieving as she stared at her sister, and Cassian wondered if she thought she were seeing things through that fog of pain… That Elain couldn’t possible be here, in these blasted mountains where there was nothing sweet and good.

His heart caught in his throat as he waited for Nesta to react. It thundered there, pounding against bone and flesh as her gaze slid from Elain’s to his — just for the briefest of moments — before her face contorted in pain and she doubled over. 

Elain hurried to the bed as Nesta rolled away from them. Without a moment’s hesitation, she crawled onto the mattress beside her sister. She reached for Nesta, intending to gather Nesta into her arms — to press her close. Cassian’s breath caught at the forwardness of it, when he would have surely been bitten and scratched and burned alive for even assuming he could touch her.

But to Cassian’s surprise, Nesta let her. 

Elain moved until their bodies melded together: the fawn and the hellcat. He watched Elain cup a hand to her sister's head and squeeze her tightly to her chest; watched Elain press her cheek to Nesta’s and rock her gently; heard the strangled sob of pain; saw the crumpled expression as everything broke and shattered.

As Cassian clicked the door close behind him, he smelt water and salt. 

And in his gut, a flicker of silver light kindled and sparked in the darkness. 

It felt like relief.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta shows Elain around Windhaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Sunday update - just! I’m holidaying this week so I’ve been short on editing time AND I have crappy internet, so apologies all round 😂
> 
> Loved all your comments from last week. I was interested to find that most of your feedback liked how Cassian admitted to himself that he had done wrong by Nesta, as opposed to caring Cass (although we obv love that side of him too).
> 
> Just an FYI, I find Elain really hard to write, and she’s my least favourite of the sisters, but I’ve tried to see things through her eyes for this chapter...
> 
> As always, let me know what you think. I love your feedback and kudos = love.

**Chapter Sixteen**   
**Nesta**

A part of Nesta wanted to rage at Cassian for bringing Elain. Had he waited until she was incapacitated to bring her sister here — to force her family on her? Had he known that this was the only way she would let her sister back in — when she was vulnerable and broken and writhing in pain and unable to move? But when Elain’s arms had closed around her — to be held and feel such love on the air, so sharp she could taste it on her tongue and scent it on her nose — Nesta had felt a splinter run through that ice-clad, stubborn will of hers until frozen water seeped through the cracks; like a melting dam preparing to break.

Elain came every day after that.

Cassian floated in the periphery. He appeared outside her door as her sister kept her company and in the corner of her eye, she saw him seated on the couch as Elain read to her. She felt his presence even when she couldn’t see him; knew that he had one eye on his papers and another on her room. His concern was palpable and like Elain’s love, Nesta could taste it. It sat in the back of her throat like a weight whenever he was in the house. And whilst she could shut it off if she wanted just as she could Elain’s by stacking up that icy wall and repairing the cracks — Nesta allowed it to sit there; a companion in the haze of twisting pain which slowly ebbed to a pressing discomfort by the end of the week. 

Nesta scented Feyre but never saw her. Good. That was where her resolve would not waver. Only hatred swept through her veins, like hot, bubbling lava when she thought of her youngest sister. And she knew, somehow, that Cassian had not allowed Feyre into the house to see her. Something kindled inside of her at that sliver of information, and when she looked at Cassian now he looked different — lighter, somehow. It took her the week to acknowledge it for what it was: respect.

Mas and Elain tried to feed her. She could barely stand the coddling at the same time as she secretly hungered for it: gobbled it up and drank it in, even when the pain ripped through her and she could scarcely breathe. Nesta saw Roksana a few times. Mas had brought the little girl into her rooms on the third day by the hand — apparently Roksana had taken to sitting outside Nesta’s door. The girl had been terrified and it had taken everything in Nesta not to whimper or moan as she squeezed the youngling’s little fingers in reassurance. Elain had been as sweet as ever, braiding Roksana’s hair until that terror had been replaced by a squeezing worry that abated as the week went on.

On that sixth day, Nesta watched Cassian fight the temptation to assist her as she hobbled to the kitchen table. It wasn't the first time she had left her bed. Elain had persuaded her to the living room the last few evenings for a game of cards and a mug of hot chocolate chai — the latter of which she suspected was of Cassian’s doing.

Now, those ever-perceptive eyes took in her fighting leathers and she watched the internal battle play out on his expression as he contemplated how to say no. Because she had learnt to read him, too; Cassian might be a seasoned warrior but Nesta believed you could read anybody if you just learnt how. He was one of the more difficult of her subjects — Azriel being the hardest — but sometimes she felt as if she could see him like nobody else could.

She watched the muscle feather in his jaw and the glint in his hazel eyes as words were pushed and rearranged in his mind. 

In the end, he just asked, “Tea?”

Dipping her chin, Nesta cautiously lowered herself into a chair. She tried not to wince as an ovary tightened and pulled, a slice of pain lashing down her lower back to the tops of her thighs. Hiding the pain had nothing to do with shame. Long gone was the mortification she had felt when Cassian first found her writhing in pain. Rather, it was because she needed to get out, and she would not allow him to tell her no.

“Do you want to eat?”

Nesta looked up to find Cassian watching her discerningly. His careful question was different from his usual tactic: presenting her with a pile of food in the hope that she would clear her plate.

It was an option not a command.

Again, that respect was there: the shift in control as it sat with her and not with him. It made her pause and consider. She had only intended to have a cup of tea but her stomach gnawed and ached. She’d barely eaten the past week because the nausea had been so intense. With every day that she became more gaunt, she could sense the others desperation to have her eat something, even if they understood that this wasn’t her usual pre-meditated method of starvation.

For her body, the past six days had been like backing up in reverse, and when she had stared in the mirror that morning — at the wan, pasty skin, the cheekbones that were so sharp they could cut glass, and the bruised socketed eyes — Nesta understood why Elain, Cassian and Mas had attempted everything to get her to swallow just a few bites of food.

“I should try,” she admitted warily, her emancipated reflection still burnt into her retinas. 

“What doesn’t make you want to vomit?” he asked.

Cassian shot her an easy smile but behind it she could still see the tense set of his jaw.He was desperate for her to eat.

“Toast?” she offered eventually.

“With eggs?” he asked.

This time he didn’t hide the hope in his voice. Cassian was always trying to get her to eat more protein. He’d told her it would help her muscles repair and strengthen after their sessions, but she also suspected it was his way of trying to get her to put on a few easy pounds. Yet a few bites of protein usually left Nesta so full she could scarcely manage the rest of her food. And the thought of eggs now with her nausea… The smell alone…

Nesta must have paled because Cassian said quickly, “Ok, no eggs. How about a smoothie and some toast? It will be just like old times.”

His laughter rumbled through her as she hissed at him, but she didn’t complain as he placed a tall glass of white liquid in front of her. She raised an enquiring eyebrow at him but he just smirked in that infuriating way of his, urging her to try it rather than divulge what was in it.

Nesta tasted banana, honey, oats and toasted pecans as she sipped it down.

Cassian busied himself at the stove, deliberately turning himself away from her as she ate. 

“You’re dressed in leathers,” he commented casually over his shoulder.

“Very observant,” Nesta replied wryly, setting the glass down. The smoothie hadn’t made her want to rush to the bathroom yet, which was a good sign. “My hair is also braided. What else have you noticed?”

With a snort, Cassian plopped down opposite her with another full breakfast plate. Nesta had never seen anybody eat as much as him. She knew he spent his days training and she had seen him with his shirt off enough times to know that he was only packed with hard muscle, but the quantity still astounded her.

“I don’t think training is wise,” he told her around a mouthful of bacon.

“Why not?” Nesta asked sharply. And then, in a tone that told him she was not to be persuaded otherwise, “Elain won’t be here until ten.”

She didn’t say what she wanted to — I need to get out — all the while hoping that he understood in that uncanny way of his. Whilst her power had been oddly quiet, she still found herself hungering for the smell of the wind and the vast, craggy landscape. For the smell of pine and snow. 

When had that started to happen, she wondered? When had she started itching for the scenery here like it was an extension of herself?

Cassian set down his knife and fork with a gentle clatter. “You barely made it to the table without crawling. You haven’t left your bed for days and you haven’t eaten a full meal for nearly a week.”

“Exercise is supposed to help,” Nesta remarked pointedly.

As she spoke, pain wrangled it’s way through her insides and she shifted uncomfortably as she tried to offset the sensation. Ever-perceptive, Cassian’s eyes hardened at the movement.

She sighed as he crossed his arms over his chest, and it took everything in her not to pinch the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Just teach me something where I don’t move,” she hissed.

“If you keep the toast down, I’ll take you up the mountain,” Cassian relented finally, after a long pause of him studying her. She met his gaze unflinchingly, even as they stared right into her very being. “But only to start on some dagger work. It’s time you learnt how to use one — the tactics will aid you when we come to fighting with the longsword.”

That made her swallow. She thought back to Cassian vanishing the set of daggers on that first day of training when memory had ripped through her. It had both annoyed and consoled her at the time: it had irritated her that he had detected her panic so easily; given her solace that somebody had understood what she needed so she didn’t have to suffer in silence. 

“You didn’t let my sister in the house.”

A quick change of subject to keep him on his toes.

She was feeling better.

Cassian didn’t falter as he said slowly, “No.”

His gaze had turned even more intense, and she wondered if he thought she was about to lose her temper. She didn’t entirely blame him, it was entirely in character.

Yet… Nesta had known he hadn’t let Feyre in; she would have bet all of her meagre belongings on it. Even so, she had needed to hear him say it. She didn’t know if barring her sister temporarily from the bungalow meant that Cassian was on her side, or that itjust meant he understood where she was coming from, but it was the first time Nesta had felt like someone had bothered to step into her shoes and see the situation from her perspective.

And because Nesta knew that Cassian wouldn't make her if she didn’t want to, she said, “Fine. We can try training with a dagger.”

* * *

The session had been slow and instructional at first, but Cassian had eventually set her up with a mannequin so she could practice targeted punching when she had proven she could stand for half an hour without doubling over in agony.

Nesta had feared she would spend most of her time trying not to envisage Elain’s small hands soaked in the King’s blood, but the push dagger Cassian started her off with was small, discreet and so different to Truth-Teller that Nesta still felt like she was throwing strategic punches rather than piercing somebody with a blade.

And Cassian was irritatingly talkative.

For every one of her grunts he grinned or laughed. For every wince of pain came a smart assed remark or a taunt. And when the nausea swept over her and she had to breathe deeply, Cassian tossed a question her way that threw her off guard.

So when she started to feel like she was going to vomit on her shoes, he asked, “Does your sister ever get angry?”

Nesta straightened as the wave of sickness passed and continued to practice, trying to pretend he hadn’t thrown her off with his question.

And although she didn’t normally fall for his bait to lure her into conversation, Nesta had to admit that the talking was distracting her from her battle fatigue and her damned ovaries that had clearly seen it fit to punish her for everything she had ever done wrong in her life.

She waited until she had completed the four attacks he had taught her, before she said stiffly, “I presume we’re talking of Elain?”

“You need to keep your fist tight,” Cassian said first, closing his large hand around hers to correct her grip. His touch was warm and distracting and it made her want to punch the mannequin again. “And yes, I mean Elain.”

“That depends,” Nesta said shortly, “on what you define as anger.”

“Well, nobody matches your fire, sweetheart,” Cassian told her with a wicked grin.

Nesta raised her eyebrows at him pointedly. Mas had told her that Cassian had lay into Ragar and his cronies with such ferocity they had been unable to train the next day. There was a reason the Illyrian’s called Cassian Lord of Bloodshed, even if some only did so begrudgingly. There was no denying that Cassian’s warrior blood was thrumming with far more Killing Power than the average Illyrian, that his wingspan far superseded the other warriors, that his stature was like something out of a painting rather than in real life. Most Illyrian’s were in awe of Cassian at the same time that they were jealous of him. He may be a lowly bastard in their eyes, but he had been blessed with the finest warrior blood. They would not - could not - take that from him. 

It made Nesta wonder how devastating Cassian could be when he truly let loose... if he truly succumbed to anger and rage like she did.

Something told her it could be catastrophic.

Cassian waved off her stern look. “I’m angry when there is cause for it. Otherwise I’m very mild tempered.”

Snorting, Nesta connected her fist with the mannequin right in the gut. She looked up to Cassian for confirmation that her technique was ok. He nodded in encouragement to carry on with a faint smile that told her he was not fully there.

“Elain can get angry in her own way, but no, she generally has a sweet temperament,” Nesta said.

Her words seemed to bring Cassian back. “She must be angry about what has happened to her. To you both,” he amended.

“Anger takes different forms,” Nesta said coldly. “She doesn’t need to snarl and rage to be angry. She’s sad instead. She retreats into herself. ”

“She wants to be turned back into a human,” Cassian said simply, cutting straight to the point.

Nesta did not still or falter at those words. She threw another punch even though her body hurt. She had known that — of course she had. Elain had said as much in her letter, not that she had needed to. They had both mourned for their human bodies as soon as they were met with that icy, depthless cold of the Cauldron. And after, when they were taken to a strange palace in the sky with the Fae they had been raised to fear, Nesta had watched Elain pine after that half-wit ex-fiancé all the while they had both battled with their strange, new bodies. After they had been Made, Nesta hadn't been able to tune out the flutter of Elain’s heart — the fragile beat of it like a hummingbirds wings rattling against a gilded cage — or walk without tripping over her too-long limbs. It had all felt wrong.

Finishing with a brutal upper cut to the throat, Nesta said simply, “Of course she wants to be turned back into a human.”

Nesta wasn’t sure if she imagined that Cassian’s voice dropped an octave, but it certainly sounded like it, as he said, “Is that what you want? For yourself?”

“It’s not possible,” Nesta replied shortly, “so I don’t see the point in discussing it.”

“But if it were, would you do it?” he pressed.

She could feel his eyes burning through her leathers and into her skin. She didn’t have to turn to him to know how intensely he was looking at her.

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation in her voice, even though something at the back of her mind chimed; a sound scrabbling to be heard.

She waited for Cassian to protest, but he didn’t.

He must have sensed her surprise, because he simply shrugged his shoulders. “I can understand wanting to be turned back — why Elain wants to be turned back, too. You were forced against your will and it was a crime, what happened to you both.”

Nesta didn’t know what to do or what to say, so she just nodded tightly. Nobody had ever admitted that to her before.

Cassian’s voice turned lighter. “Besides being forced against your will, is there something in particular about being Fae that you dislike?”

“Everything.”

Cassian’s eyebrows flicked up high at that. “Even your strength? Your ability to heal? Your unrivalled beauty?”

Nesta fought the urge to turn on him and raze him to the ground.

“I liked my human body just fine.”

“Most of us in Prythian would love to be High Fae.”

“Well, I don’t,” Nesta said shortly. Angrily. That fuse ignited and promised to burn, burn, burn. “You don’t, either.”

“No,” Cassian agreed, his eyes dropping to her fingers as if he were expecting to see them spark. “I’d sooner die than lose my wings, even if Illyrian’s are regarded as the lowest of Faeries.”

“Well, I would have rather died than be High Fae. I’d rather be Illyrian than High Fae.”

That stopped Cassian in his tracks and she immediately regretted allowing her tongue to run away with her as his face lit up.

He had decided to focus on the latter part of her sentence, then.

“Well, you have certainly changed your tune. Does that mean you’ll stop calling me a bat?”

Ignoring him out of spite, Nesta threw a vicious punch to the mannequin. It wobbled dangerously, threatening to topple but remained upright.

“Why don’t you like being High Fae?” he asked again.

Nesta was silent for a moment, weighing up how to answer. It was a dangerous silence and the power inside of her burned ferociously until her fingers sparked silver.

The release of energy calmed her somewhat, so she confessed, “My limbs, my ears, everything.”

“What’s wrong with them? Your ears I mean?”

“They’re pointed, you idiot,” she snapped. “Are you blind? At least your ears are normal.”

“You’d have wings if you were Illyrian,” Cassian pointed out, as if she were stupid. “You spat blue murder when we first flew you around.”

“If I had my own wings, I wouldn’t have to worry about an incompetent brute dropping me,” she countered.

She had hoped her insult would shut him up but that infuriating, cocky grin slowly spread across his face. “I’d never drop you, sweetheart. It’s my only excuse to hold you close.”

“Insufferable,” Nesta muttered, wincing as pain struck through her lower abdomen. “We can fight in the sparring ring down there next time for that comment. That way the only thing you’ll be holding close is your injured ego.”

She jerked her chin to the side of the mountain pass that Cassian had indicated to on that first morning of training.

Those hazel eyes — the outer edges of his irises a startling green which gave way to a brown so light they almost looked amber — glinted at her threat. Their bickering seemed to please him rather than infuriate him, as if her fire rallied against his own.

“Then you’d just be depriving yourself of my touch,” Cassian teased. “There’s no sense in punishing us both.”

Snarling, Nesta cut him a glare rather than allowing herself to roll her eyes. “Do you flirt with every female you meet?”

Cassian grinned wolfishly. “Just you as of late.”

“Go and find an Illyrian to charm,” she spat, flexing her fingers before curling them back around the handle of the push dagger.

“I have a no Illyrian policy.” Nesta’s eyes flicked to his at the sudden seriousness in his voice, but his grin suddenly widened. “I’m a Nesta-only Illyrian brute.”

“I’m sure there’s a swooning female in Velaris to calm you down,” Nesta bit out in an effort to not dissect that comment. How was he still trying to flirt with her after all this time? “It would take you all of five minutes.”

A satisfied smirk. “Is that a compliment, sweetheart?”

Biting down the venomous words that wanted to burst forth, Nesta said coldly, “No. I found it incredibly easy to do the same.”

Cassian’s nostrils flared. “Of course you did, you’re intelligent and beautiful. Although I’m surprised they weren’t sent running when you gave them verbal whiplash.”

Even as heat bloomed in her chest, Nesta forced herself to shrug as if she were bored of their conversation. For all his flirting and teasing, Cassian had never called her beautiful or intelligent before. There was something in the way he said it — as if it were a fact rather than a compliment — that made the words sing true.

“Some just can’t keep up,” she deadpanned.

Cassian’s laugh was throaty and his expression delighted, as he said, “You are a whirlwind, Nesta Archeron. Do you know that?”  
  


* * *

Elain arrived at eleven thanks to Azriel. Nesta had watched them appear in a blur of shadow, Elain light against Azriel’s dark.

“You’re out of bed!” her sister exclaimed gleefully as Nesta let her into the house.

Elain’s cheeks were rosy with the cold, the tip of her nose pink. “And you bathed by yourself?”

Nesta bit her tongue to stop the snide remark that almost burst forth. Now she wasn’t in constant pain, her mind had cleared enough to start stacking up that protective wall. And whilst Nesta had decided that she wasn’t going to tear down the bridge that was already under construction between her and Elain for now, it didn’t mean it was going to be easy. Already she felt stiff and awkward, the absence of pain paving way for doubt and the very reasons she had distanced herself from her sister in the first place.

Yet Elain’s unbridled happiness at being reunited was enough to start thawing the iciness of her heart. Her sister had always had a hold over her that no-one else had.

“I tried to help,” Cassian called woefully as he stepped into the living room from his bedroom. “She hissed at me and threatened to throw a book at my head if I so much as followed her to the bathroom.”

Elain laughed nervously as Nesta shrugged, allowing her sister to slowly usher her to the couch. Her earlier exercise with Cassian had certainly helped to ease the sporadic cramping, but now her insides felt raw again and she was thankful to be sitting back down.

What Cassian said was true. By the time that they had touched down outside of the house, his flirting had gotten under her skin so much that she had found herself desperate to get away from him. So she had threatened him and limped straight to the bathroom, his bark of delighted laughter following her as she had closed the door with more force than necessary. She had scrubbed herself free of his touch until her skin was red and raw, the hot shower washing away those jumbled emotions that still made her want to shatter things.

Yet for all of Cassian’s teasing and sexual innuendo, he had been nothing but respectful when the occasion called for it. When she had been in the bath rooted to the spot, the nausea rolling through her with every intake of breath, his eyes had never strayed beyond her face. And when he’d asked permission to touch her and taken her hands in his, something had kindled inside of her. Because despite the agonising pain and the nausea that threatened to overtake everything else, his thumbs pressing into her wrists had been grounding enough to get her into bed.

Nesta hadn’t wanted to shatter things then. And thinking of it now… well, it was the first time she’d wondered what it would feel like to have someone else touch her like that. Nesta hadn’t had one flicker of arousal since she’d been brought here. Even before that, desire had been laced with a numbness that had always chased away any true long-lasting oblivion. But now, even though she didn’t feel it in her core, she did briefly wonder whether those large hands of his would easily span her waist and how his callouses would feel against her skin as he did it.

“Perhaps we should try to go for a walk today,” Elain said, snapping her out of her thoughts. Her sister’s head was cocked to the side and she seemed concerned — the faraway look in Nesta’s eyes had clearly been enough to have her worried.

Cassian was watching her too, even as he ruffled his wet hair with a towel. He’d showered after her and even from where he stood, she could scent pine and air and musk. One of the first things Nesta had asked Mas for when she had no longer been withdrawing was for new toiletries. Smelling like him day in and day out had frayed her nerves and it had felt indescribably good to wash with the scent of her usual jasmine rather than rubbing him into her skin.

Satisfaction had bloomed inside of her when Nesta had entered the kitchen one morning after bathing to see Cassian’s nostrils flare. He hadn’t said anything, but there had been a tightness to him for the entirety of their meal. She knew he had liked that she scented of him. It was one of the things that grated on her nerves about being Fae. Even if it was ingrained into their territorial instincts, the males were so possessive of females. It made Nesta even more resolute that she would be nobody’s. She had seen what a human boy who lacked Fae strength had been capable of and she had no intention of letting a Fae male get through her protective walls only to suffer far worse.

“You should pop by Emerie’s clothing store,” Cassian said, as he threw the towel he had been using through his bedroom door and onto the bed. “You could order some more books whilst you’re there.”

“There’s no more shelving space,” Nesta clipped, annoyed that he had interfered — annoyed that she had been thinking of him again.

“It’s good business for Emerie if you order more books,” Cassian explained. “I’ll sort out more shelving. Order whatever you want.”

“I could look for a new scarf!” Elain exclaimed happily. “Besides, I haven’t seen any of the camp yet besides the house.”

“There’s not much to see,” Nesta muttered, all the while contemplating taking her sister to one of the cliff faces to show her the snowdrops.

Elain hadn’t been deterred by the prospect of mud and before Nesta had time to blink, she was being ushered into her coat.

They were halfway out the door when Cassian said from behind her,“Don’t forget your headband.”

“Oh, I want one,” Elain breathed as Cassian handed it to Nesta. Her sister plunged her fingers through the soft grey fur — the action was exactly what Nesta had wanted to do the first time Cassian had presented it to her. “Did you get this here, Nesta?”

“I didn’t buy it,” she replied shortly, pulling it over her ears. She avoided Cassian’s gaze — those hazel eyes were laced with a concern she didn’t want to think about. It was as if only now he had remembered that she’d walked through the main vein of the camp only twice before. The first time she’d nearly blasted it to smithereens when her battle fatigue had overtaken her, and the second time she’d fought off three Illyrian males.

“Don’t follow us,” Nesta snapped at Cassian. Somehow, she knew he was contemplating it. His wings had expanded and settled unconsciously. It was a nervous habit that usually indicated he was planning on shooting into the skies. Nesta had experience enough of Cassian following her overhead when they were in Velaris and she didn’t want him doing the same now.

That muscle in his jaw clenched but when Cassian spoke, his voice was light and unbothered, “I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

Nesta scoffed and his expression darkened. “I could change my mind,” he threatened.

That made her turn on her heel.

“Goodbye,” she said shortly over her shoulder. “Come on, Elain.”

* * *

  
The walk started with Nesta stiff and in pain, but like with the training session, the more she moved the better she felt. Elain was a distraction too; her sweet and excitable personality enough to fill the time with questions and observations as they made their way towards the craftsman centre of the camp.

Tents gave way to a small litter of wooden buildings with large lead windows: a blacksmiths; two clothing shops; what looked like a shop for weaponry; a general supplies store; and an apothecary.

“There are two clothing shops,” Elain said with a frown, looking between the opposite buildings. “Which one did Cassian want us to visit?

Nesta peered through glass of one of the tall shop windows — the cleanest of the two — and saw the familiar figure of Emerie standing at the counter.

“It’s this one,” Nesta said, nodding to her right.

The bell above the door heralded their arrival as Nesta and Elain entered the shop. Emerie straightened from behind the counter, those shrewd eyes watching as the sisters stepped in from the cold.

A large roll of paper was laid out in front of her beside boxes of clothing, as if a new order had come in just that morning. 

The Illyrian set down her pen. She was wearing a long-sleeved grey woollen shift dress and her shining ebony hair hung free. Nesta watched Emerie’s dark, alert eyes move from Nesta to Elain, no doubt observing the unmistakable similarities between the sisters at the same time as their stark differences; blue eyes against molten brown; sun-kissed skin versus Nesta’s pale complexion; Elain’s delicate, straight figure a sharp contrast to the sweeping lines of Nesta’s own.

“Good morning,” Elain said with a friendly smile, as she started to finger her way through the fabrics of the various scarves hanging from some hooks.

Emerie nodded stiffly in response, clearly taken back by the geniality — it wasn’t something one often encountered in Illyria.

Her eyes cut back to Nesta as if she sought out the cold behaviour she was used to. “You’ve read all of the books then.”

It was more of a question than a statement and so alike to something Nesta would say, she nodded without thinking. “Yes,” she admitted. “All of them.”

“I can order more.”

“Good.”

“More of the same?”

“Some,” Nesta said, walking to the counter. “Plus some early learning books for the young; learning the alphabet, popular children’s stories. That sort of thing.”

Emerie raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. She tore some paper off the roll on the desk and started to pen down what Nesta had asked for.

“Are the books for Roksana?” Elain asked, coming up behind her sister. She was holding a woollen, fringed scarf in a lovely mauve colour which would bring out the golden in her hair and the honey in her eyes.

“Roksana likes to listen to stories,” Nesta explained shortly. “I thought I would buy some educational books to assist her learning.”

In truth, Nesta had been thinking about teaching Roksana to read for a while. Whilst the little Illyrian still hadn’t spoken, she would often trace the letters on the page as Nesta read, her small fingers playing with the foreign curves and black ink of words she didn’t understand. If Nesta were to source more stories for Roksana, she thought she may as well throw in something educational at the same time. Nesta had not forgotten Feyre: how her inability to read had nearly cost her life; how Nesta had pinched and prodded at her youngest sister’s nerve of insecurity, calling her a peasant for something that had never been her fault.

Her cruelty to Feyre had been another way of hiding from the truth. Nesta had always been raging too fiercely for Nesta to see clearly — to take some responsibility. Her father may have let them down in an unforgivable way, but Nesta had done the same. They had both been destroyed by grief and rather than rally against it, Nesta had only become more bitter and cruel to defend herself from any further disappointment. She was starting to see that now. She was starting to see it all and it made her want to run...

But what would running do? Nesta couldn’t eradicate her identity and forge herself anew. Her past was woven into her Made body and now she had an eternity to live with her past actions. It was just punishment, she supposed...

“You’re going to teach an Illyrian to read?” Emerie’s voice was sharp and disbelieving. The question cracked through the air but Nesta did not stiffen of flinch as she was hauled out of her thoughts.

She raised her chin defiantly, ready to battle. “Yes, if she likes.”

“She?” Emerie’s voice was even more disbelieving now.

“You can read and write from the looks of it,” Nesta said coldly, nodding her head to the scroll of paper on the counter. “Are you not a female?”

“My father had money. I’m an anomaly, especially for a female.”

“Well, Roksana can be another anomaly,” Nesta said with a finality that dared Emerie to challenge her. “Everyone should be able to read if they wish to learn. As an orphan I don’t see her having any other prospects apart from freezing to death in this horrible camp.”

“I think it’s a lovely idea, Nesta,” Elain said softly from behind her. An attempt to diffuse the tension in the shop, no doubt. “Can I get this scarf, please?”

Elain placed the mauve fringed scarf onto the counter. It was made of a thick wool and looked impossibly soft.

“You saved my assistant.”

Nesta looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

“Durkhanai. She’s an orphan. I employ her at the shop. She said you saved her from Ragar and his friends the other day at the bottom of the mountain.”

Nesta’s snort was abrupt as she remembered the sneering males. “Those bastards deserved everything they got and more,” she clipped darkly. 

Something flared in Emerie’s dark eyes that was akin to Nesta’s raging defiance.

“Yes,” Emerie agreed. The usual modulation to the Illyrian’s voice was long gone, as if the subject had worn it away until Nesta had nothing but truth. “Durkhanai tells me that warriors guard the path now.”

Nesta’s nod was stiff but far looser than it usually was. “No female should fear for their safety as they walk home.”

Emerie surveyed Nesta for a moment, but for once Nesta did not feel the need to turn her spine into steel. Instead, she placed some coins for the books onto the polished pine countertop. Cassian had always told her she could use the money at the house but she’d be damned if she spent a dime of his. Her own remaining funds may be pity money from their High Lord but if Nesta had to use it, she’d make sure it was for someone other than herself. She’d always hated that money — the funds she had been given out of obligation rather than because she deserved it. It was why she had never bought anything nice for herself. After the war, Nesta only purchased what she thought she was worth: a dirty, dingy apartment; drab clothing; enough alcohol to drown out everything; and barely enough food to live on.

Books were the only exception. They were always Nesta’s means of escape — of believing that things could be better for someone else: that love existed, raging and defiant, despite everything. In those stories, love always won and Nesta read and read and read to try and convince herself that it could be true. Even though she knew that in her own life, to love only meant pain and being let down. It was why she had sealed her ribcage to protect her heart.

“On the house,” Emerie said after a moment. She had been studying the money, but now she pushed the coins back towards Nesta.

“Take the money,” Nesta insisted sharply. Emerie’s chin rose in defiance, but Nesta levelled her with a gaze. “Females help females. Have Durkhanai deliver them to the house. Pay her extra for it.”

Slowly, Emerie nodded as Nesta handed over an additional coin. The coins clinked into the register, one by one and the sound travelled around the empty shop.

“Is Durkhanai here?” Nesta asked, thinking of the beautiful curly, haired female with her almond green eyes. Nesta’s cycle had chained her to her bed for far too long, scuppering her intentions to run up the mountain each morning to meet Mas and Roksana — to ensure they got to work safe. Nesta trusted Cassian enough to ensure the females had warriors stand patrol to guard the mountain entrance, but she didn’t trust the other Illyrian males to stick to orders.

Emerie shook her head. “No, she starts work from midday. She and some of the other female orphans have started training with Lord Cassian at dawn, in case those males come back.”

Good. That gave Nesta a little bit of solace. Cassian would do everything in his power to teach those girls how to defend themselves. His determination on that front was unwavering and as impenetrable as carbon steel. Sometimes, when Nesta woke well before dawn, her eyes would find him in the distance as she looked out of her bedroom window; his large frame and the shadow of his enormous wings accompanied by a few other petite dots in the sparring ring. There were always far too few of them for the amount of females in the camp, but Cassian never missed a session unless business called him elsewhere. Nesta wished she could shake those females and tell them how important it was to defend themselves. How she had been stubborn and naive and allowed a boy to pin her down in an attempt to rape her, and how still she had refused to learn basic defence. She wanted to tell them that it would cost them; that the trauma would haunt them forever until again, another event would come around which would test their ability to fight and they would come up short. Nesta wanted to tell them that she had been a stupid, stuck up female who nearly lost her life in the war — who cost her father his life — because she did not know how to physically fight. Her words had not been enough then and they would never be enough.

Nesta’s thoughts pulled her deep into herself as they left the shop. Elain seemed to sense it, her hand weaving through her arm to bring her sister close, all the while glancing uncertainly at her. The hollow look must be back in her eyes. Nesta spent the walk to the mountainside trying to breathe away the crushing weight that threatened to collapse her lungs. That at least, distracted her from the snapping of the twigs and pinecones underfoot as she led them towards the clearing where she usually started to run.

Elain panted as they tracked their way up the climbing path, but Nesta progressed with relative ease. Even with a week’s worth of malnutrition and the sporadic but intense discomfort in her lower abdomen, her legs were strong. She felt the muscles in her thighs and calves tense as they carried her forward, the rhythm indescribably good as she revelled in the knowledge that she could rely on them to carry her where she needed to go and that they would not fail her. The further they climbed, the more that awful weight dissipated, until it was nothing but a lingering coat on her insides — a reminder that it could come back, when it wanted.

“There’s a good view once we get above the tree tops,” Nesta said. It was the first she had spoken since the shop but Elain had looked like she was about to cave from the intense exercise and Nesta couldn’t stop yet. “Those snowdrops grow there. I’d like to show you,” she elaborated.

Elain looked like she was about to protest but Nesta held out her hand. It was the first time that she had reached out to her sister. Elain’s pink lips parted in surprise but her slim palm slipped into Nesta’s as she allowed herself to be led up, up, up until the path stretched out into a windswept plateau.

Snowdrops grew in the cracks in the stone wall, their dusky blue the only colour against the rock. Elain had examined them after she’d caught her breath with a look of pure delight. She had gushed about them before bringing out a small pair of cutting scissors from the folds of her dress and cutting them at the stems until her hands were full of weeping blue heads.

“Perhaps you could come back to Velaris soon,” Elain said to Nesta, as she continued to examine the flowers in her hands.

They had sat down on a flat patch of rock to admire the view: the snow-dusted green triangles of the pine trees; the endless, breathable sky with its rolling, tumultuous clouds. Nesta had fearlessly dangled her legs over the cliff top but Elain had sat a foot or so back, all the while throwing her sister darting looks of concern at her unflinching attitude to the sheer drop.

Perhaps Nesta was too used to having Cassian with her. She knew if she were to step off the cliff, to feel the wind rush around her as she fell into nothing but air, he would catch her. At the beginning of her stay, Nesta had contemplated what it would feel like to step into nothing. Would she have felt anything at all when for the most part, her whole body was numb and lifeless, even as the ground rushed up to meet her? Or would the thrill of it be a short reprieve, just like that crashing pleasure of an orgasm as she rode herself into oblivion?

“Ask my captor,” Nesta said stiffly, folding away the thought into the back of her mind. The mention of Velaris was too bitter to ignore. “I don’t decide my own fate.”

“I don’t think Cassian - ” Elain started nervously.

“Not him,” Nesta snapped.

Elain looked worriedly at her sister. “You mean Feyre?”

Nesta shot Elain a scathing look, as if to say; who else?

“I didn’t know they were bringing you here,” Elain blurted. The sound was harsh and brutal even against the whipping wind. Nesta’s look turned into a glare that she usually reserved for when she wanted to kill.

To Elain’s credit, she did not balk. Instead she grabbed for Nesta’s hands again, squeezing her fingers, as if she were trying to instil her point through her grasp.

“I didn’t, Nesta,” Elain insisted. “They don’t… they don’t run things past me. I keep to myself most of the time. They let me tend the gardens. I help Nuala and Cerridwen. Azriel visits me now and again. Feyre’s mostly busy during the day, although she tries to check in on me…”

Elain trailed off hopelessly at the palpable anger that was still radiating from her sister. Her voice dropped to a whisper, but Nesta’s Fae hearing still picked up the words even as they flew on the wind, “Do you… do you hate it here?”

Nesta turned resolutely back to the view before her, even if her gaze was unseeing and filtered red.

“I don’t want you to tell me how sorry you are that you have all sent me here, or how you think it’s good for me to be parted from my self-destructive tendencies,” Nesta snapped.

She wrenched her hands away from Elain’s. The action made her cold but she welcomed the sting of it — the pain.

“I’ve heard all of this before and I don’t want to hear it again,” Nesta finished with a snap that even she felt, like a cord being cut in her insides, ravelling up until it was nothing but a tangled mass of discomfort.

“I do want to apologise to you, but not… not for Feyre sending you here,” Elain insisted, her voice still quiet. Too quiet. The pain in her sister’s voice had shifted raw. It was enough to have Nesta turning back to her, because that anguish was so similar to her own.

Nesta fought the frown that wanted to wrestle its way across her features. “What do you mean?”

Elain swallowed as she wrung her palms in her lap. Nesta watched them twist and twist and twist, like the knife she had turned in the King of Hybern’s neck until it had toppled to the floor.

She had done that for Elain. She had done it all for Elain.

“It’s my fault we were Made,” Elain confessed hoarsely.

“No,” Nesta said forcefully — fiercely — her eyes snapping to meet her sister’s. “Do not say that to me.”

Elain had paled. She looked like she might be sick from grief, as if it were eating her alive. Her lovely face was so tormented Nesta wanted to raise a hand, to smooth the lines away but she didn’t — couldn’t. She wasn’t in control of her body again.

“It was my fault we were kidnapped and it was my fault we were Made,” Elain repeated, even as her voice tremored with a ferocity that told Nesta it took all of her sister’s willpower to finally say aloud what had clearly been haunting her for a long while.

“Don’t be stupid,” Nesta snapped. “Of course it wasn’t your fault. That so-called High Lord promised to protect us and he failed.”

“Nesta,” Elain pressed, but the word was gentle — loving. It grated against Nesta’s nerves. It made her want to snap like she did at Cassian.

“I made us stay at home because of Graysen,” Elain continued. “We would have been safe in Velaris. We would never have been taken if we had gone with them. We wouldn’t have been overpowered in the Night Court.”

“They aren't that powerful,” Nesta scoffed. “They couldn’t stop the King even when they were there, could they?”

“They were injured,” Elain reminded her. “Cassian’s wings had been shredded and he still… he still tried to crawl towards you. I… I don’t know if you saw that. They had just grabbed you to force you into the Cauldron and you were screaming. I was so traumatised by it all, but I remember him lurching out of unconsciousness and trying to claw towards you. It must have been agony because he passed out again —”Elain broke off into a sob then and the words tumbled forth, as if they were rolling, rolling, rolling down a slope, gaining momentum as they fell. “It was my fault. It was my fault. And I just… you’re so unhappy and I just wanted to be there for you seeing as I was responsible, but you wouldn’t let me.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Nesta said stiffly, turning her head away from her sister and back to the landscape. “I don’t blame you.”

“Then who do you blame?” Elain pleaded. “Tell me it’s not yourself.”

It is my fault, Nesta thought, but she couldn’t say the words out loud. Resolutely, she clamped her lips together.

At one point Nesta had blamed the Night Court, but really, deep down, it had all been about her failure to protect her sister. Long ago, Nesta had failed Feyre but Elain… she had vowed to protect her. Yet here Elain was, in front of her, changed forever. No longer human but somehow even more beautiful, despite the ears and the long limbs.

It was the first time that Nesta had seen Fae features and thought them lovely rather than as a reminder that they were now something other. Is that how Cassian saw her? As beautiful? He had said it earlier. He’d been sincere, too. That she knew, as much as she knew that the sun would rise tomorrow and set at dusk. There was a truth in Cassian that made her blood sing and her ribcage ache.

Banishing the thought from her mind, Nesta said what Cassian had brought up earlier,“You want to be human again.”

It was a statement not a question, but Elain answered anyway.

“I did,” she confessed. “I do in some ways. I’d like to look human. But what waits for us back there in the human realm? Nobody would accept who we are or what happened to us. Our home isn’t our home anymore. We’re orphans. We’re just floating…”

Nesta knew what Elain meant even as her sister broke off. It was how she felt. An orphan with no home and no purpose. Drifting…

“The camp is… not the prettiest thing I’ve seen,” Elain confessed after a moment of silence. Nesta sensed she needed the abrupt change of subject as much as she did. “But this view is beautiful. Do you come here often?”

“Most days,” Nesta replied shortly.

“Feyre mentioned you have been training.”

Nesta shrugged, trying not to tense at the mention of her sister’s name. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Cassian makes you?” Elain asked disbelievingly, a frown on her face at the thought of the seasoned warrior dragging her sister kicking and screaming into the sparring ring.

“No,” Nesta snorted. She very much doubted Cassian would make her do anything. “I…” she started, but then trailed off, not sure how to explain her power; how to find the words.

So instead she closed her eyes and reached for that well inside of her. She found the anger as easily as one passed their hand through the air in front of them. When she opened her eyes, Elain was staring at her hands — at the ethereal mist that crawled up her arms.

Nesta allowed her fingertips to spark and then, as if her power were an extension — like it were one of her limbs — she threw it across the clearing. It streaked a blaze of silver, the colour a flash of steel across the grey rock and backdrop of blue and white sky.

“Exercising helps to control it,” Nesta admitted begrudgingly, once the power had been obliterated by the wind. She ignored her sisters wide-eyed gaze as she stared at the empty space where that silver had flared. “And I won’t be controlled by anybody or anything else. If we’re going to live forever bad things are going to happen again. I will not be defenceless next time and neither should you. Ask Azriel to teach you how to protect yourself.”

The words came out before Nesta had time to think about them. They surprised her how truthful they were; how she had spoken how she felt even though she hadn’t connected the dots in her mind.

“I don’t think —” Elain started.

“Ask Azriel,” Nesta insisted, her voice firm and unwavering as she cut her sister off. “He will teach you. Or Mother Above, ask that mate of yours if you have to. I’m sure he’d jump at the chance.”

“I’ll ask Azriel,” Elain said quickly.

It seemed she still did not want to talk about the red-haired imbecile. Nesta didn’t blame her sister. The whole mating concept was a joke; a cruel twist of fate to have something else thrust upon you by the one thing that had Made you into something you would have rather died than become.

“Do,” Nesta said pointedly. Then, “We should get back. Those are rainclouds on the horizon.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian visits Dawn. Mor visits Windhaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday lovely readers 🙂 I’ve had a week off work and intended to do a bunch of writing but unsurprisingly, it didn’t happen. However, I bring you chapter seventeen for your Nessian weekly dose! 
> 
> So many comments for last weeks’ chapter and they were the BEST. I’m going to reply to each and everyone of you right now, but I just wanted to say thank you for the love and that it really does keep me writing 🥰 
> 
> PS I’m working on a one-shot at the moment for when Mor followed Cassian in ACOFAS after he had got back from seeing Nesta. Let me know if you’d like to read it as it might inspire me to finish it...

**Chapter Seventeen**   
**Cassian**

A visit to the Dawn Court for the Prythian Summit took Cassian away from Illyria for three days. Whilst it was nice to be back with his friends — especially Mor, who had travelled home from her travels to make an appearance as Rhys's Third — in his spare moments, Cassian would often cast his mind back to the bungalow and wonder what Nesta was doing.

There had been an undeniable shift between he and Nesta since he’d brought Elain to Illyria and Cassian had even dared to contemplate that Nesta was starting to trust him. Their conversations held less bite too, and at times their verbal sparring could even be described as banter. In those moments when Nesta’s icy guard thawed, Cassian was unable to help the shameless flirting. There was something thrilling in coaxing different reactions from her: discovering what made her outraged; what made her quietly contemplative; and once, what made her blush. The latter had been his favourite and he had dedicated himself to making it happen again, if only for the dusky smattering of rose that stained her usually pale cheeks. He had yet to come up for a name for the look, but the image was imprinted on his memory. Nesta looked beautiful flushed, so much that it made his body heavy and aching, his mind running rampant with thoughts that he tried not to think of, even when he was alone.

“Nesta liked it here when we visited last,” Feyre had commented to Cassian on their first evening, as they looked out at the view from the palace in the clouds.

They were all sharing the same communal living space as before and Feyre had found Cassian on the wrap-around balcony looking wistfully at the sky. The balcony floor was made up of unique ceramic floor tiles, which when pieced together formed the image of hundreds of rising suns in a mix of white, cobalt and egg yolk. Cassian had sat himself down on them, his legs dangling fearlessly over the edge; his wings forever an insurance if he should fall and start plummeting towards the sun-kissed rock cushioned roses and peonies.

“She always wanted to travel,” Feyre added wistfully.

She sat down beside him but set back from the edge. Feyre had not been born with wings like him; had not learnt to be fearless of heights… to hunger for them like they were an extension of her very being. Below them the red terracotta roofs and sunstone bridges were a warm splash of colour against the buttery sunlight of dawn.

“My father would never let Nesta go with him, of course,” Feyre continued. “I suppose she was still too young then, but he always promised he’d take her when she was old enough. She would often go to the harbour to wave him off. She liked to be by the ocean, she preferred it to our little village.”

Staring down at the warm splashes of reds, yellows and oranges, Cassian chose to remain silent. Feyre’s words had sparked a deep-rooted insecurity of his — that Nesta would prefer any of the other courts to cold, brutal Illyria. He too had seen the look of awe on her face when they had visited Dawn for that diplomatic meeting well over a year ago. Her eyes had gone as round as saucers as she drank in the palace that rose up into the fluffy clouds, and later, he had caught her staring wistfully at the lush green of the countryside that stretched for miles and miles until it met the glimmering gold of the horizon from her bedroom window. That had been when she was Human Emissary — before everything had gone to utter shit. She’d never take the job now, he knew that. Nesta wouldn't work for Rhys when he held so much contempt for her. And why should she? Cassian wouldn’t take a job from somebody who held such obvious dislike for him, either.

It was a thought that was hard to swallow and something that needed to be addressed eventually. Later, when the time was right…

“Elain said Nesta’s feeling better?” Feyre’s question was tentative. She was looking at him with concern and he immediately felt like a prick for ignoring her attempts to converse with him. Feyre had every right to ask after her sister’s well-being but each time she had done so of late, her words and stance had been laced with apprehension.

She knew how uncomfortable it made him to discuss Nesta.

“She’s feeling much better,” Cassian replied with a half smile that he was sure didn’t quite reach his eyes. He rustled his wings, flaring them out slightly so he could catch the sun’s rays. It felt amazing to have warmth seep into them rather than the frigid sting of the Illyrian wind. Winter had taken the Night Court in its fierce grip and Cassian had vowed to make the most of the magic surrounding the palace, which made the atmosphere balmy rather than frosty.

Feyre tracked the movement with a knowing look. No doubt she’d seen Rhys doing the same thing since they’d arrived. Even Azriel had allowed himself a rare moment to sun his wings on the balcony an hour ago. Cassian had only grinned at his brother in understanding before he’d done the same. He had spread his membraneous wings as wide as they could go, and after a roll of his eyes Azriel had done the same. It was what the three of them had done when they were teenagers; unfolding their wings until the membrane and tendons burned with the effort, cockily competing for the largest wingspan. That seemed a long time ago now and whilst their innocence might have been wiped clean away, the passing years had made their brotherly bond far stronger.

“I’m pleased that Nesta isn’t in pain anymore,” Feyre murmured, holding a hand up to shield her eyes from the spark of sunlight that glowed amber on the horizon. “Elain is much happier now she and Nesta are talking. The light is back in her eyes. She still has bad days, but… it’s helped having Nesta back in her life. Those two have always been so close.”

“Good,” Cassian replied, the word a little uneasy in his mouth.

He would not deny that he hadn’t even contemplated how inviting Elain to Illyria would do wonders for the middle Archeron sister, too. Selfishly, Cassian had only been thinking of Nesta. He couldn’t bare to see her doubled over in pain and not do something about it. And even though it had been a gamble bringing Elain to care for Nesta, it had paid off in dividends. Elain and Nesta had been exchanging letters since and Cassian had heard Nesta mention that Elain wanted to visit again in a few week’s time. The sisters were by no means joint at the hip, but it was a start.

“I’d like to come and see Nesta. To explain.” There was a pause as Feyre glanced sideways at him. Then, she confirmed what they both already knew. “You think it’s a bad idea.”

It wasn’t a question but a statement and an accurate one at that.

“Yes,” Cassian admitted reluctantly. “Nesta knew you had winnowed Elain in. She asked me about it.”

Feyre’s inquisitive look was laced with alarm. Cassian didn’t say his refusal to allow Feyre in the house had earned him Nesta’s respect, it seemed too cruel.

“Nesta can sense things sometimes,” Cassian explained vaguely, casting his mind back to his first visit to the Human Realms. Nesta had known he’d been circling the house before his arrival, and more recently, she had known something had happened to Mas. She’d even sensed when he had sat on the roof opposite that dark and dingy apartment, torturing himself as she brought home male after male.

Even now, he did not like to think of that.

“Is that part of her magic, do you think?” Feyre asked quietly. “Glamour’s never worked on her when she was human. Sometimes I wonder if Nesta was born with some unlocked power. Something separate from what she took from the Cauldron.”

It was an interesting theory, and one Cassian had already contemplated. The Illyrian’s in the Windhaven camp still called her a witch in hushed tones, but Cassian was not so sure. Witches notoriously amassed their power from natural elements; from wind, earth, fire and air. Nesta’s power seemed to come from anger, rage and fury — from within the very fabric of her being. What Cassian was certain of, was that Nesta harboured more power than her natural reserve. He didn’t know how or why but he would be damned if it wasn’t linked to her ability to feel more than the average living, breathing thing.

“I think Nesta’s talent for sensing others is definitely a power of hers, whether it’s what she took from the Cauldron or something that’s uniquely her own, I’m not sure,” Cassian elaborated.

Then he clenched his teeth together so the muscle worked in his jaw, as he admitted what had been bothering him for the past few weeks, “We won’t ever know if Nesta decides she doesn’t want to understand her power. She’s training with me but apart from the occasional exception, she can’t control it.”

It was true. For the most part, Nesta still couldn’t target her power or control how much of it she used. There were certain actions she had mastered: Nesta could staccato power into the sky whilst they sparred and she had on rare occasion scared the shit out of the Illyrians — namely the three males that had been threatening the orphans and widows. But if she got truly angry or scared — like that time they had fought at Spearhead — Nesta’s energy expelled itself in one go.

The effect was devastating. Even now, Cassian could see how those trees had burned and burned with silver fire, both of them furious: he at himself, Nesta at the world.

Apart from Rhys or Amren, Cassian couldn’t think of who could help Nesta with the aspects of her power that he had yet to understand. Those bridges had been well and truly burnt and he wasn’t about to go grovelling to either of them for help until he had no other choice. There was someone else he could ask… but he’d have to think on that later. Nesta had been resistant enough to him helping her, let alone a stranger who she didn’t know. He would have to tread carefully — very carefully — if he didn’t want Nesta to block him out again.

“Solstice is a month away.”

Feyre’s words had him tensing.

“Yes,” he said simply, for lack of anything better to say.

Feyre cut a sideways glance at him. Her eyes — so similar to her sister’s yet different somehow — were full of trepidation. “We initially agreed to a three-month trial,” she expanded, referencing their first conversation that day at the House of Wind. “I’d hoped Nesta might be better by then, but…” Feyre trailed off and shook her head in dismay. “Why did I expect her to be healed in three months when it took me far longer?”

Cassian tried to smile at Feyre but it only came out as a grimace. “I don’t know.”

Feyre ran a hand through her loose hair, the strands the colour of honey as it ran through her fingers.

“And why did I think she would want to come home for a holiday she doesn't celebrate with people who sent her away?”

Cassian’s expression only darkened. “I don’t know,” he repeated again. “I have to stay in Illyria for Solstice this year. Rhys and I spoke about it this morning. I’ll join you the day after.”

Wringing her hands, Feyre nodded as she cast her gaze back to the horizon, but her focus was still on Nesta rather than his Solstice plans. “Do you think Nesta wants to leave Illyria and move back to Velaris?”

“I don’t think she wants to come back to Velaris.”

Inwardly Cassian cringed at the answer that had been too quick. Feyre didn’t seem to notice. Her expression had hardened, but there was something else across her features; it was a willingness to learn and understand. She twisted her neck to look at him. “She said that?”

Words failed him and Feyre blinked slowly, as if his confession had been hard to swallow. In his peripheral vision, Cassian felt violet eyes on his back… as Rhys tried to determine why his mate was so distressed.

“I - ” Feyre started, but then she nodded as if his stream of thought had connected in her brain. “I want to see her. I want to explain. I want to see how she’s doing, Cassian. She’s my sister and I’m the evil one who has banished her away without seeing her since. Is that selfish of me? To want to apologise for where I have failed and let her know that I want to try to make things right?”

Cassian’s jaw clenched again unwittingly. He’d have no damn teeth left in a few years, if he carried on with the habit.

Holding back a sigh, Cassian fought the urge to rub his hands over his face. He couldn’t stop his friend — his High Lady — from seeing her own sister. Only now was he realising that he couldn’t control every aspect of Nesta’s life to shield her from damage. He could only advise. He and Nesta were living in a controlled bubble but as soon as either one of them stepped out, he was going to have to accept that things could go wrong.

So he turned to Feyre with a seriousness that he usually reserved for topics of war and council. “Your sister likes the ball to be in her court.”

Feyre frowned but she nodded. “Yes.”

“If you want to try and see her, send her a letter with a proposed meeting place in the camp. She can decide whether to turn up or not.”

Feyre’s head cocked to the side as she thought through his words. “Do you think that will work?”

Cassian shrugged and summoned all his strength into keeping his voice level — at not snapping at Feyre’s naivety because she was trying to learn. “It’s not about whether it will work or not. It’s about letting Nesta have control. She had no choice coming to Illyria. She had no choice when she was Made. She felt like she had no choice but to suppress her power…”

He levelled his gaze with Feyre’s so the next words had the desired impact. “Nesta needs control to feel stable. Put the ball in her court. It’s the only way chance you’ll have of reconnecting.”

A small smile broke across his face then and Feyre’s jaw fell slack in surprise at the speed in which he had flitted from earnest to light-hearted. He chuckled, thinking of how Nesta had flung that rope of silver fire at Devlon and how the war lord had recoiled as if he had been slapped. He’d bet Nesta would do that to Feyre, if she were given half the chance.

Standing up, Cassian brushed down his leathers. Dinner was soon and he wanted to bathe before they ate.

“Hopefully Nesta won’t blast you with that fire of hers,” Cassian called over his shoulder, “but I can’t promise you anything when it comes to your sister. What I can promise, Feyre, is that if you do get to witness it, it’s breathtaking.”

And grinning from ear to ear, Cassian disappeared through the opalescent archways and into the palace, leaving a stunned Feyre behind.

* * *

What Cassian had said about giving Nesta control was true. It was an understanding that he had only just fully realised himself. It irritated him that he hadn’t implemented it sooner — it would have saved them both a hell a lot of time and a whole lot less agony — but Cassian supposed that was what a learning curve was.

For all of Nesta’s life, she had lived with the pressure and expectation to behave a certain way. She had never had true control and she had rebelled from the get-go, even as life continued to throw brutal hurdles at her. So Cassian had started urging her to take back control. It was an approach that had been most successful when it came to her eating habits. Out of desperation to stop her from wasting away, Cassian had harboured a tendency to force food upon her. Now she was eating more, he merely offered it to her. He’d barely been able to hide his joy as she started to slowly but surely pile on the much-needed pounds, and since her cycle had finished, the two of them had fallen back into their daily routine with far more ease than before.

Every morning he was in the camp they would eat breakfast before they trained with the dagger and the longsword. Carrying through on her threat, Nesta had insisted that they train on the old sparring platform at the back of the mountain pass. Pride had surged through him as he watched her settle her headband over her ears that first day, her face set in determination. Cassian had spent the entire walk through the camp on tenterhooks, waiting for Nesta’s battle fatigue to emerge, but he should have known she’d surprise him, and apart from the odd flinch they had made it there in one piece.

Despite tucking her away at the back of the camp, they still found themselves with an audience whilst they trained. Illyrians who had no business being there would walk by, their dark eyes trained on them as he worked through ways to maim and harm with a blade. Sometimes, when some males had loitered too long, Nesta would raise her palms to the sky, the blazing trail of fire a threat before she turned to them with a glare that often had them stopping dead in their tracks.

That was if Cassian hadn’t snarled at them first. Sometimes he couldn’t help the territorial beast that sprang forth from him, because amongst the derisive looks there was also an underlying current of lechery that had his blood boiling.

Whenever he scared them off, Nesta would stare at him in that way of hers, her head cocked slightly to the side, as if he were a puzzle she were trying to figure out. He could never tell if she was pleased or angry and she never commented on it, they merely continued their practice as normal until he called it a day.

The downside to training in the camp rather than up the mountain was the loss of physical contact. Cassian hadn’t been joking about how flying gave him the opportunity to hold Nesta close; to savour the rare quality time that was not dictated by training or meals.

Cassian had suggested stargazing numerous times because of it. In his defence, the stars had been exceptionally good each time. Nesta had surprised him when she’d agreed to come with him rather than turning down his offer with biting dismissal. He had flown them to two of his favourite spots for stargazing; a small island in the middle of one of the mountain lakes where the water reflected the stars as clearly as a mirror, and to the unrivalled view of Mount Arla, where the rocks were shaped like wings, spreadeagled and ready to take flight.

But Nesta seemed to favour Tarrunda best; where the cliff face stepped down to the forest floor and the waterfall ran down the centre, until it eventually ran into the deep pool at the bottom of the forest floor. Cassian had never seen Nesta look so in awe, not even when she had visited Dawn and had surveyed the palace in the clouds.

It was the thought of flying with Nesta again that had him asking Mor to winnow him back to Windhaven at midday on that third afternoon. The summit had drawn to a close over an early breakfast, and whilst he had travelled back to Velaris with his friends for a debrief, his mind was already back in Illyria.

Windhaven was dark and gloomy — a stark contrast to the warm light of Dawn — but Cassian’s first glimpse of the atmospheric sky had his heart soaring. Initially, he had planned to take the rest of the day off after a month of relentless activity and finally sleep, but now all he wanted was to fly until the sun disappeared and the sky turned indigo. He'd missed the feel of the wind beneath his wings.

Letting go of Mor’s hand, Cassian grinned at her wolfishly. “See you soon?”

Mor frowned as he spread his wings. “You’re not heading into the bungalow first?”

“No,” Cassian told her, as he scanned the bustling camp for a certain female. Somehow, he knew she wasn’t in the house. He’d known it as soon as he’d landed; when he had reached out for her presence through the stone walls and come up empty.

“And here I was, thinking you’d at least offer me a cup of tea before I disappeared,” Mor teased. “Who knows when we’ll next see each other?”

Cassian barked a laugh at the hopeful look in Mor’s rich brown eyes. “Come and winnow me back to Velaris when you’re home in two weeks time. We’ll have a night out at Rita’s.”

To his surprise, Mor didn’t huff a laugh. Instead, she cocked her head at him, watching as he quickly scoured the perimeter for a head of golden-brown. He really couldn’t help himself. Already he was itching to place her amongst the crowds, his heart beating in his chest at the anticipation.

Making a point to rest his attention on the sparring rings to throw Mor off the scent, Cassian winced as an amateur Illyrian threw an ill-timed punch, even as his heart drummed; _Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?_

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Cassian?” Mor asked. Her voice had risen an octave in suspicion and Cassian knew then that she had seen right through him.

He dragged his eyes back to his friend, and even though his friend’s look was all-knowing, he feigned ignorance. “And why would I be trying to get rid of you?”

Mor’s expression was alight with both amusement and offence. “Because since we have arrived you have done nothing but search for Nesta.”

Resigned, Cassian bit back a sigh. Why was he even trying to hide something when his friend was truth incarnate, anyway? 

“Would you like a cup of tea, Mor?” he relented.

He expected Mor to grin, but she only folded her arms firmly across her chest and stepped back on one leg so she could survey him. “You don't want me to see her, do you?”

“No,” Cassian admitted, stalking purposefully towards the house. They may as well get this over and done with. It was another conversation that had been hanging over them.

Mor followed close behind him; her blonde, effortlessly wavy hair falling over her face as she met his stride with the confidence of a female who was used to having eyes watch her wherever she went.

“Why?”

Cassian grunted at her demanding tone. “You know why.”

“Because I have snapped at her in the past? She’s done the same to me, you know.”

“Oh I know,” Cassian agreed, but his voice was low and lacked his usual playfulness. It was enough for Mor to bristle.

Because how could he explain to Mor the gravity behind the fact that he and Nesta were finally doing more than just co-existing? That it had taken him near three months to get to a point where she no longer looked like she was wasting away and every movement, every breath wasn’t tailored towards her hatred of him… for all the things he had done wrong.

And his mistakes were numerous, he knew that now.

Mor’s eyes searched Cassian’s hardened expression. He didn’t know what she was looking for but something flickered behind her pupils to indicate that she had found it.

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” Mor promised grimly.

But Cassian levelled her with an unyielding stare that actually had Mor stop in her tracks. He needed her to understand how serious he was — how this wasn’t a game to him. “You can’t come in if you’re not going to be.”

Mor’s jaw went slack, her eyes widening at the seriousness in his voice. For a moment, Cassian thought she was going to lose her shit but then she looked away; into the bustling, cold camp. He had never been this firm with her. Their friendship had always been fun and light. Yes, sometimes it had been flirty, but if he thought about it properly now, it had always lacked true intent. Neither of them had wanted to really repeat that night.

“She can be cruel,” Mor admitted quietly after a pause, “especially to you. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Cassian said firmly. Then he made his mouth quirk up into a lopsided smile, because he didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “I’m a big boy now.”

An amused sound caught in the back of her throat, lightening the mood slightly, even as Mor crossed her arms over her chest again.

Placing a palm to the wooden door, Cassian felt the vibration as the lock turned over, but he didn’t push it open. Somehow, he knew Mor wasn’t done and he didn't want to take their discussion inside the house, even if Nesta wasn’t there to overhear it. He’d rather have a difficult conversation in the brutal weather rather than in the warmth sanctuary of the bungalow.

“It’s a coping mechanism, you know that,” he told Mor quietly, before she could say anything. “Have we all not dealt with the things life has thrown at us in different ways? I think everyone forgets Nesta is younger than us — I certainly did. Living with her has reminded me that she’s only twenty-four. How many mistakes had we made by that age?”

Mor made a face, her nose wrinkling, even as he saw the words strike home. “Feyre and Elain are younger and they don’t act like her.”

Irritation flashed across his face as fast as a fork of lightening. Mor froze in place as he stared at her. It was a look that he had honed over centuries and usually had even the most stubborn of Illyrian’s doing his bidding.

“Each of the sisters are different,” Cassian said in a low voice — in a dangerous voice. “You saw Feyre after she came out from Under the Mountain, she was little more than a ghost. Elain barely talks some days and pines for the loss of her human life. Nesta tries to render herself numb so she can stop raging at the injustices life has thrown her.”

The last coping mechanism was all too familiar to Cassian. He too had opted for drinking and fucking himself into oblivion. Days had bled into months and he’d never gained back those memories, not that he had wanted to. The knowledge of what had happened to his mother still haunted him and he would fight to his dying breath to try and right the wrongs done to her — to stop the horrors for so many of the females in Illyria that were still far too frequent, despite his best efforts.

So he understood the path Nesta had chosen and the logic behind it, even if he could never truly know what it was like to experience her unique trauma. Even now, he still had no idea what haunted her the most; she was still a closed book wrapped in thick iron chains.

Cassian didn’t want Nesta to unravel for him and tell him all her darkest secrets, he just wanted to be the silent support in the corner, who didn’t judge her for a coping mechanism that he had adopted once himself.

Cassian hadn’t truly stopped to ponder the awful things that had happened to her since her birth. More and more, Cassian had found himself contemplating how it had felt for the two eldest sisters to be drowned in the icy depths of the Cauldron — to have their limbs and very being torn apart until they had been rearranged into something new entirely. How had it felt for them to be dragged from their beds in barely enough clothing to protect their modesty and then Made into something they were terrified of?

And the fact that Nesta had scrabbled and fought — that she had clawed a chunk of power out for herself just to spite the most ancient and revered object in Prythian — was a mark of her character. It had demonstrated her strength and resilience, even if that power had near killed her. Everyone saw Nesta as cruel and twisted, but she had that power because of Elain; because she had failed to protect her sister and that chunk of power was her vow to get revenge. 

Cassian was in awe of her for it, despite everything. It was what he would have done.

Mor blew out a loud breath. “I don’t like how she has treated others. Feyre, Rhys, Elain, you. Especially you, Cassian. I worry, is all.”

“And there is the problem,” Cassian said shortly. “We have all been too busy judging Nesta for her bullshit behaviour without pausing to think that perhaps Nesta has faced some things that she doesn’t care to share with anyone, but has a lot to do with how she acts.”

Mor paused, her lips parting in surprise at his words.

“And I imagine you do know?” she asked carefully.

“I don’t think I know half of it,” Cassian replied seriously as he pushed the door open. “But I imagine if we all did, we wouldn’t judge her half as harshly. Do not think for all of Nesta’s coldness that she is not punishing herself for her past actions. She is, Mor, and it is eating her alive. Not all of us can be bright like you.”

Because Mor was bright. She was the sun in the sky; happiness and laughter and light. Yet Cassian had seen her on her bad days when that light had been dampened until it was nothing but a fleck. That was usually when she visited the Hewn City or when they’d had a run-in with the Autumn Court.

Mor worried her lip between her teeth and he knew she was thinking of her own demons. Whilst her good days won out the majority of the time, what had happened to her when she was younger still traumatised her. He didn’t blame her, it still traumatised him. It always would.

“I’ll be good,” Mor promised eventually.

Cassian shot her a tight smile and squeezed her shoulder brusquely in thanks before he stepped inside. He heard Mor toe off her shoes so she wouldn’t dirty the carpet before she followed the tense set of his broad shoulders into the kitchen.

He could sense her nerves as he roughly filled the cast-iron kettle and set it on the stove. Mor leant against the kitchen table rather than sitting down in her usual spot.

“Cassian...?”

He turned at the tentative way she said his name.

Mor was toying with the sleeve of her blouse — a deliberate action to avoid looking him in the eye. “Do you think things went wrong with you and Nesta because of me and you… and Az? Because of… everything?”

It was odd for Mor to address it all so directly. After five hundred years of not talking about it, Cassian instinctively found himself closing up. But it was her that had brought it all out into the open and the way he had defended Nesta just now… it was the first time he’d explicitly argued her case in front of Mor.

He drummed his fingers on the wooden countertop — the action agitated — as he cast his mind back to every damn mistake he’d made when it came to Nesta Archeron.

Because it was a factor. When it was late at night and Cassian was unable to sleep, he often found himself replaying that scene in the war camp; when Nesta had carefully washed and wrapped his sprained wrist with a tenderness he’d not witnessed from her before save for Elain. She’d done it in front of Rhys and Feyre — had asked how to make it right. Knowing Nesta like he did now, Cassian truly understood how rare it was for her to showcase such intimacy in front of others.

And it had been intimate: his heart had stopped dead, his lungs had forgotten how to breathe and he had only focussed on the gentle way her slim fingers had worked their way over his skin. The touch had been like a damn brand and he’d been utterly entranced until Mor had arrived. Even though his body had been screaming to hold on, he had made himself pull away from her like her touch had burned, because he hadn’t wanted Mor witness a moment so precious — to realise just how badly Nesta threatened the bizarre triangle he, Az and Mor had hidden themselves in for centuries. He had owed Mor that, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t regretted it.

“Cassian,” Mor pressed again. Her eyes had softened as she watched him hesitate, as if she knew what he was going to say. “Do you think that’s why things went wrong?”

A long, pregnant pause.

“Perhaps,” he admitted eventually. Cassian actually suspected there was an upsetting amount of motivating factors, but he and Mor… how he had acted. It had to be a reason.“It doesn’t matter now,” he said dismissively, wanting more than anything to bring the subject to a close.

It hurt to think about the ways that he had fucked up.

The sadness that fell across Mor’s features was so intense and genuine that he wanted to console her, but he was too angry with himself to do it.

“I’m sorry,” Mor said quietly.

Cassian nodded tightly. “So am I.”

The click of a lock had them both turning to the backdoor. Mor’s eyes widened with something akin to alarm. Cassian would have laughed if he wasn’t so tense himself. Mor was Third to the High Lord — her power superseded most in Prythian — yet here she was, panicking about meeting the eldest Archeron sister.

“Be nice,” Cassian warned again, unable to keep the plea out of his voice. He immediately regretted allowing Mor into the bungalow. It was this sort of meeting that would throw back any progress they had made. At least it wasn’t Feyre. Thank fuck it wasn’t Feyre. That would have been catastrophic.

The bungalow seemed to swell and pause, as if it too had taken a lungful of air in anticipation of Nesta’s arrival, before a gust howled through the open door and broke the tension.

The first thing Cassian noticed was that Nesta’s cheeks were flushed rose as she stepped inside. Wisps of her golden hair framed her face from where they had come loose from her braid and whilst Nesta looked dishevelled, she still looked breathtakingly beautiful. She was breathing hard as if she’d been running, and sweat clung to her forehead despite the cold weather.

Unconsciously, Nesta raised a wrist to her forehead, dabbing away the sweat as she shut the door with her foot. Already she looked so different from the female who was fuelled by alcohol and half-starved. In this moment she didn’t look like she was suffering or full of hatred; she looked like she were living rather than existing.

It was the most relaxed Cassian had ever seen her other than when she was sleeping, and he felt like he was looking through a window, peering through the glass pane to get a glimpse of what Nesta was like when nobody was around. Even her limbs were loose rather than stiff, her posture almost human rather than Fae.

It took a fraction of a second for that human girl to disappear. The intense exercise — the priority of oxygen over anything else — had clearly clouded Nesta’s ability to sense their presence as she had approached the house. He witnessed the moment she realised she was no longer alone, as that icy wall slammed up and in a cold sweep, her face went from open to blank, like a canvas wiped clean.

When those blue, stormy eyes snapped to him everything went taut. He felt like a prey being sized up by a predator; and in her expression, there was nothing of the Nesta he would speak with when they trained up the mountain or when they flew amongst the stars. He actually stopped breathing when those eyes slid sideways to Mor and turned hollow. That had the panic firmly coating his stomach, his organs, everything.

Mustering every effort into his grin, Cassian made the action slow and infuriating — the sort that usually had Nesta’s nostrils flaring in irritation as his teeth flashed. “Did you miss me?”

Something fell away inside of him when she didn’t reply. Her chest was still heaving hard and he watched her move to the sink to get herself some water. Silence surrounded them as she drank and Cassian scrabbled for conversation.

“You’re very out of breath,” he remarked with a smirk. “Did you run back to greet me?”

Nesta and Mor both made noises of disgust.“Males have such inflated egos to think that females pine and wait for them to come home,” Mor mused with a wave of her hand. “And you, brother, are no exception.”

Cassian stopped his eyebrows from flicking up into his hairline but he shot Mor a look. Brother?

Mor’s smirk was found in the twitch of one corner of her mouth just as Nesta snorted cruelly in agreement, even as her expressionless mask did not change. She was a vacant and unreadable canvas and he hated it with an intensity that made him want to banish Mor from the house.

Mor did not greet Nesta, she only rested her eyes on the female before her. “How have you managed to put up with this oaf, Nesta?”

A pause. Cassian held his breath, but then Nesta clipped flatly, “With great difficulty.”

Mor hummed in sympathy, unaffected by Nesta’s tone as she took a seat at the kitchen table — in Cassian’s usual spot. “I can only imagine.”

“Where have you been running?” Cassian asked Nesta conversationally. He’d habitually started warming up some chai to busy his hands — whether it was to mask his worry or to try and make her feel more at ease, he wasn’t sure. He could tell she hadn’t been running away from anything, not literally anyway. He trusted now that he would feel her panic in his gut if she were truly terrified, and even without that, he’d have read it in her body language. Panic and anger were usually the only emotions Nesta was unable to hide.

Despite asking the question, he was surprised when Nesta actually answered. He’d have bet all his wealth that she’d have already left the kitchen by now. “Up the mountain.”

Cassian’s eyes flicked into his hairline. He was impressed — beyond impressed — that she had tackled the brutal ascent. The best Illyrian warriors cracked at the relentlessly steep incline and even now, after all his years of training, the thought of doing it himself made him feel nauseous.

He cast a critical eye up and down her body. Her chest was still heaving and she looked tired, but the way she was holding herself made him wonder whether she’d been running for a while without his notice. Novice runners of that particular trail usually found themselves crawling back to their tents. “How far did you get before you vomited?”

Nesta’s white fingers tightened around her glass. “I didn’t vomit.”

Pride flared in him. “We can run together tomorrow,” he promised.

Nesta shrugged as if to say, fine. Cassian expected her to leave, to escape to the bathroom in that unfazed way of hers that left him unnerved, but she just remained where she was; a ghostly presence.

“There’s tea, if you want it,” he added, gesturing to the saucepan for lack of something better to say.

Nesta shook her head and refilled her glass of water. When she turned back, Mor was eyeing Nesta appreciatively.

“I wish I looked that good in leathers,” Mor sighed. “They fit you like a second skin.”

Cassian tensed as Nesta’s depthless eyes rested again on his friend. And then there, the slightest of creases between her eyebrows at the compliment neither of them had been expecting. It was genuine too — Cassian knew Mor better than most.

Nesta opened her mouth to reply but Cassian was too fearful that she’d say something scathing.

“Did you eat?” he interjected quickly. Mas didn’t come on Tuesday’s so there would have been nobody to remind Nesta to feed herself.

Those steely eyes hardened and flashed. They settled back on him and Cassian felt as if they were burrowing into the back of his skull, through the bone and out the other side.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

Cassian’s lips pressed together at the iciness of her tone and in the corner of his eye, he saw Mor still. That was evasive enough to sound warning bells in his head. Yet she didn’t look as if she’d been denying herself food. Her cheeks had filled out in the week’s since her cycle and those sharp lines on her figure had started to smooth over. Even the bruised smudges under her eyes had lessened. She looked healthier and Mor was right, she did look amazing in those leathers. Cassian could even see the strength beneath the material, as flesh gave way to muscle.

Pride flared inside him again, so brightly that he almost felt consumed by it.

“Mas has been cooking,” Nesta relented eventually when he continued to stare her down, raising a dark, demanding eyebrow. “She left food in the cool box.”

Good. Cassian had ordered Mas to ensure that Nesta had plenty to eat. Whilst he had tried to relax how much food he put in front of her, he liked to have meals that she could just heat up. It was too easy for her to fall back into bad habits when he wasn’t around; to crave the sensation of hunger in her belly rather than sating it.

The sound of Nesta’s glass clinked at the bottom of the sink. When she turned back, she visibly stiffened. Mor was leafing through one of the books from the stack that Nesta had left on the kitchen table with interest.

Books were now a part of the furniture in the bungalow, so much so, that Cassian didn’t bat an eyelid at the books that tended to rest on every surface of the house. Nesta always appeared to be half-way through a book (if not a few) and he knew that she had started reading to Roksana, too.

He never discussed that with Nesta. He was too scared that he would come across as condescending — or worse, pleased — and she might stop, just to spite him. So he had left her alone with it and even when Emerie had dropped by an impressive stack of new books, he had kept his mouth firmly shut. Instead, he had sourced some local timber and wordlessly resurrected more shelving in her room. Nesta had not thanked him for it, but that evening she had silently placed a mug of green tea in front of him after dinner, choosing to show her thanks through action rather than words.

So Cassian had decided that if Nesta wanted to tell him about teaching Roksana to read, she would. There was no point broaching a subject that might ruin the experience for her and he had made his peace with it, even if he did crave for her to tell him about her day in the evenings; the precious mundane details of the life he did not witness when they were separated.

It was the books delivered by Emerie that were still on the table. Cassian had already cast an eye over them. There had been a few novels, but the majority had been children’s books, including one on the alphabet. He had seen Nesta reading them to Roksana on the couch. It was one of the only times he had seen a ghost of a smile across her face — when Roksana would trace the letters with her fingers — listening to Nesta’s steady voice as she explained that G was for Griffin and M for Manticore.

Mor raised an elegant eyebrow at him. “Cassian, I wasn't aware that you needed a refresher on the alphabet.”

Tossing his friend a vulgar gesture, Cassian silently pressed a mug of chai into Nesta’s hands.

Nesta was so consumed by Mor that her slim fingers wrapped around the mug without thinking. He watched her blink down at the drink and then back at him. He shot her a lopsided smile. He knew she had wanted some. Nesta never turned down a mug of chai.

“Don’t be an ass,” he told his friend. “The books are Nesta’s.”

“Obviously,” Mor retorted. “You only read books about war. It’s boring and very predictable of you.”

Cassian made a noise of protest but Mor was already looking to Nesta. “Who are you teaching to read?”

Cassian knew Nesta was uncomfortable — that she wanted to leave — but still she remained rooted at the sink. She raised her chin defiantly. It saddened Cassian that she always prepared for a fight.

“An orphan.”

“Mas still looks after the orphans?” Mor’s face softened as she turned back to Cassian. “That Illyrian is a saint.”

Cassian nodded. “Roksana is her latest. I gave her a job at the house to keep her out of the laundry rooms.”

“That’s good of you,” Mor said grimly. “Of both of you,” she amended. “Do we know what happened to her parents?”

Both of them looked to Nesta.

“No,” Nesta said shortly. “Roksana doesn’t speak.”

“Mas told me that Roksana said a few words the other day,” Cassian commented lightly as he put a steaming mug of tea in front of Mor.

He hadn’t been there when Roksana had finally spoken but Mas had told him in a hushed whisper one afternoon when he’d found her in the outhouse. Mas’s face had been alight with joy as she recounted the experience, and had then proceeded to comment on how beautiful Nesta looked when she smiled.

Cassian had been so disappointed to have missed Nesta smiling that he’d made a point of dropping by the bungalow in the day in the hope that he might catch a glimpse. He’d not been successful yet, but when Roksana would say a letter of the alphabet Nesta’s entire face would soften in a way that made his throat constrict.

“She just said a few letters,” Nesta replied dismissively.

“Well, she didn’t say anything before,” Cassian countered, not wanting to take away the importance of what Nesta had achieved. “So that’s progress.”

Nesta clamped her lips together and didn’t reply.

“And how is the girls training going?” Mor asked Cassian, knowing like him that Nesta didn’t look like she was willing to contribute anything else.

Cassian made a noise in the back of a throat that was akin to a growl. “Slowly, but it is happening.”

He leant casually back against the worktop. He wanted to sit down but he didn’t want to leave Nesta out from where she appeared rooted by the sink.

“I just want them to be able to protect themselves,” he continued. “They don’t have to be warriors if they don’t want to, but I’d like to think that they could hold their own against those Illyrian brutes.”

“You should educate them.”

The words that cut through the air were such a surprise that Mor’s mouth fell open slightly. They both turned to Nesta. For once, her carefully blank expression had carved itself into something more fierce — more beautiful.

“It’s all well and good teaching girls how to use a dagger but how will they make informed decisions if they can’t do basic things like read?”

The question hung between the three of them as Nesta placed her empty mug of chai in the sink. The earthenware rang gently against the porcelain, the only sound in the kitchen. “I’m going to bathe,” Nesta informed them with an air of clipped finality, and then without a formal goodbye, she was gone.

A long silence stretched between he and Mor. Cassian didn’t have to look to his friend to know that her mouth was still slack. He could practically hear the wheels turning in her brain but he was still staring after the female that never failed to surprise him.

Fuck, he wanted her more than anything.

“That’s… actually a really good idea,” Mor admitted. “Imagine what she could achieve — what we could achieve — if she voiced her thoughts more. She looks so much better than when I last saw her. You’re good for her, Cass.”

It was praise that Cassian did not deserve. He shook his head. “Nesta did all of that by herself.”

It was true. Cassian may have given her no choice but to ease off the alcohol but in the three months they had lived together it was Nesta who had turned her life around. He thought of her sheer determination in the sparring ring and the gentle way in which she read to Roksana in the afternoons, the little girl staring reverently up at her. And the widows… they had carved out a space for Nesta’s fire since that day at the bottom of the mountain. It had been a few weeks’ after the event until Mas had told him that Nesta met she and Roksana almost every morning, helping to bathe, dress and feed the orphans after their training session. The knowledge had made him want to pull Nesta to him and press his lips to her temple, because whilst Cassian may have provided the circumstances, Nesta had chosen to excel all on her own. Every decision had been made by her and her alone, and each action slowly but surely rebuilt Nesta’s identity: ancient but wholly new.

Staring at the empty doorway where Nesta had disappeared, Cassian felt her phantom presence step into the bathtub. He ignored that constant tug that urged him to follow her. It was getting harder and harder to ignore, as if his will were made of stone and a chisel was slowly but surely chipping away at it.

Instead, he relished the admiration that consumed him — of Nesta’s strength and resolve, of her tendency to defend and protect, even as others called her cold.

Yes, Nesta Archeron had done it all on her own, and he’d never, ever been more proud.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta and Cassian take a trip to The Steppes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An absolute hulk of a chapter this week - 10,500+! I really need to learn how to write more concisely...
> 
> This is one of my favourite chapters so far. Lots of plot development, SO MUCH NESSIAN, we learn more about the multifaceted nature of Nesta's magic, and some good old fast paced action. For any of you located in the UK, the idea for Kamanam was loosely inspired by Old Harry Rocks in Devon. Give them a google. Summer holidays can be good for more than just a rest from work, it seems!
> 
> I actually can't believe the amount of comments I got last week! I was grinning from ear to ear. Thank you to each and every one of you. It really is these comments that make me so dedicated to this fic and I promise I will reply to you all this evening. Comments really do mean the world. We also hit 500+ kudos this week, too. Honestly guys, you're spoiling me...
> 
> Happy reading and do let me know your thoughts on this latest update :) 
> 
> OH, and for those of you last week who said you'd like to read a one-shot from me. It's called Kernels of Truth if you haven't already spotted it and it's on A03.
> 
> p.s I'm duskandstarlight on Tumblr. Come and say hello!

** Chapter Eighteen  
Nesta **

Nesta had not long been back in her room — freshly bathed and clad in a towel — when a knock sounded at her door.

Mor’s presence in the house had thrown Nesta off kilter and the hot water from her bath had done very little to ease the twisting knots in her stomach. The sensation made her want to run away. It was a feeling she hadn’t had the misfortune of experiencing for a while and it made her brazen and reckless, so she threw open the door dressed only in a towel and hoped to the Gods it was Cassian and not the chirpy blonde.

Whilst the encounter with Mor hadn’t been as bad as Nesta had anticipated, Nesta wasn’t in a rush to see her again. The easy dynamic between Mor and Cassian was always something she found hard to swallow. It was light and full of laughter; a stark contrast to her relationship with the General, where they survived on goading and insults — real or otherwise. 

Nesta had been expecting sly jabs and tense words from Mor, but she had been... pleasant. Social pleasantries such as _how are you?_ were so loaded that Nesta often found herself biting back a scream, but thankfully Mor had avoided the awful smalltalk. 

It was perhaps the first time that she and Mor had been in the same room without an energy of mutual dislike. Yet, despite the uneventful encounter, Nesta still felt uneasy. It reminded her that she and Cassian were living in a comfortable bubble, and as soon as they stepped outside of it… things got complicated. And Mor… well, she was hovering over the periphery. Again.

It meant that she and Cassian’s dynamic was all a lie, too. 

To Nesta’s satisfaction, it was Cassian at the door. She only gave herself time to watch his eyes darken before she turned on her heel and walked back to the dressing table with the pretence that she was utterly unperturbed by his presence. 

Before he had arrived she had been pressing the water out of her hair — it had been a long while since she’d trimmed the ends and it had a tendency to drip everywhere, including into her clothing if she didn’t thoroughly press it first.

Studying Cassian’s face in the vanity mirror, she watched his pupils dilate and his throat bob. He looked anxious. 

She rose an enquiring eyebrow. 

“I thought I’d come and say hello,” Cassian said finally.

His voice was a little rough, as if he hadn’t been using it chatting away to Mor and his friends for the past three days. He leant on the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, and Nesta watched the way his biceps swelled before snapping her gaze back to his. 

The corners of his lips twitched uncertainly. It was a ghost of his usual smile.

“Did I not just see you in the kitchen?” she asked wryly.

Cassian’s grunt told her that she had irritated him. Good.

“We did,” he assured her carefully, as she discarded the towel she’d been using on her hair. “But you spent most of your time trying to catch your breath, so I’d hardly call it a heart-to-heart.”

Nesta refrained from rolling her eyes. “I don’t think we have ever had a heart-to-heart.”

That wasn’t true and they both knew it. 

Neither of them pointed it out. 

“How have you been?” Cassian asked.

He was staring pointedly at her face. He’d done the same thing when she’d been in the bath writhing in pain and trying not to vomit. Not once had his eyes dropped below her neck. At the time, she had appreciated it. But now… it annoyed her. She wanted to get a reaction out of him — to see his nostrils flare and that obvious look of appraisal as his gaze swept over her body. 

Nesta suspected seeing Mor had sidelined his focus.

“I’ve been fine,” she clipped. 

She didn’t bother asking him. She didn’t want to know about the time he’d spent with _them._

She ran a brush through her hair to get rid of the tangles with a ferocity that hurt. She did not let herself wince as the teeth snagged in the knots. 

Cassian tracked the movement as if he were surveying a threat. His hair was down today, which Nesta guessed was largely due to the fact he hadn’t been sparring or flying, and it hung in messy curls to his shoulders. His hair could always do with a brush — it was untamed, just like him.

“I’ve got the day off. I thought we could spend it together.”

“How touching,” Nesta remarked drily. 

Wanting something to do, she started to plait her wet hair back. In recent weeks, Nesta had foregone her usual coronet for a simple day braid. It was better suited to sparring and it was not like she had anybody to dress up for in Windhaven, anyway.

Cassian catalogued the movement and when her eyes caught his again in the mirror, he grinned in that infuriating way of his. It told her he was about to do something that pissed her off. 

With long, purposeful strides, Cassian moved across the room to the armchair beside her bed. He sat himself down in it, relaxing back into the cushions as if he were a part of her furniture. It meant that they were much closer than she’d like. 

Much like the rest of the rooms in the house, Nesta’s bedroom was modest. It wasn’t too large or too small; it fit everything it needed in it and no more. It was cosy rather than boastful and Nesta had come to like it. 

Apart from now… when it meant that Cassian was encroaching on her personal space.

The bastard knew it too. His eyes gleamed as she stiffened. 

“Do not get comfortable,” she hissed at him through the mirror, pointing threateningly at him with her hairbrush.

Cassian just laughed, tucking his arms behind his head with a finality that told her he had no intention to move anytime soon. She watched him point his elbows up to the ceiling, and as if his wings were an extension of his limbs, they half-stretched too. The gentle Faelight turned the membrane umber, or perhaps even closer, the colour of cinnamon.

“I thought we could leave the camp today,” Cassian said conversationally. “Come flying with me.”

Nesta twisted round to stare at him. Whilst her stomach still felt tight and turbulent, the thought of getting out of the camp appealed to her. And if she were being entirely honest, the house had been too quiet without Cassian in it. Windhaven wasn’t like Velaris; she couldn’t wander the streets or find the nearest establishment to drown her sorrows and entertain herself with some unsuitable company. So rather than running up the mountain where she and Cassian usually trained, Nesta had started to exercise through the main vein of the camp before heading up to the widows camp. 

As Cassian had promised, Nesta had found guards posted throughout the path of pine trees that led to the base of the mountain, and they only nodded at her as she stepped onto the rocky, treacherous path that led up, up, up to the tombstone, as if they had a spoken agreement with her rather than strict orders from their General.

The widows camp was more alive in the mornings then it was in the evenings, when the females were drained of energy from their hard, laborious days. Nesta had wandered through the battered canvas and bustling crowds that first day, taking in the females young and old beating laundry and stationed around flickering camp fires, a pair of knitting needles in their hands. 

Eventually, Durkhanai had found her and led her gently by the hand to Mas’s tent. Nesta had barely had time to duck her head under the entryway and make out the makeshift beds and hanging lanterns, before Roksana was skating over to her, those little fingers finding fistfuls of her skirts. The housekeeper had taken one shrewd look at Nesta and set her to work; bathing the youngest orphans in a large, cast iron tub located by the mountain stream that ran further up the mountain, before getting them dressed and sitting them down at the makeshift kitchens for some breakfast. 

To see the meagre rations the females received in the morning’s had Nesta’s stomach in knots, but a female with long, ebony hair and a crooked grin rendered with holes had gently pushed on Nesta’s shoulders until she too was seated with a steaming bowl. Nesta knew to refuse it would be to wound the female’s pride, so she had tucked in, slowly eating the oats and ignoring the hunger in her belly that growled long after she had finished her bowl.

But this morning, Nesta had chosen to remain in bed. Tuesday was the housekeeper’s day off, and with Cassian absent, Nesta had cherished the lie in before an oversized warrior was again pounding his fist against her door to get her up for training.

For once, Nesta had slept uncommonly well. She had woken from a dream well after the watery light of dawn, still chasing the faint ghost of lips on her ear and the large hand between her legs. It hadn’t taken her long to shatter. Her body was already primed for orgasm, her fingers wet as she circled herself into oblivion. When she came, she bit down on her lip so hard to stop herself from moaning that she drew blood. 

Afterwards, she lay back on the mattress panting and covered in a sheen of sweat. It was not the first time Nesta’s sexual appetite had awakened, but it _was_ the first time she truly felt the orgasm that surged through her body. Usually, her peak was swallowed by an underlying numbness that doused the liquid fire surging through her veins until it was nothing but cinders.

“And where would we go?” Nesta asked Cassian, making sure to keep her voice aloof and disinterested.

Cassian shrugged loosely. “I know some good hiking trails by the coast. Unless you’re too tired—”

“I’m not too tired to hike,” she interrupted. The words left her mouth too quickly but the thought of being near the sea again — of the smell of salt and the sound of crashing waves — made her skin itch with longing. 

Cassian tried to hide his surprise but Nesta caught it. She supposed he couldn’t understand the memories the sea brought for her. They barely knew each other, if she thought about it properly. 

“Good,” Cassian said simply. He adjusted himself slightly amongst the cushions, as if he were intending to remain for a good portion of time and wanted to get comfortable. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”

A moment passed as Nesta stared pointedly at him. His innocent smile grated on her patience and from the way it widened with the ongoing silence, Nesta knew that he was well aware of how much she was refraining from throwing the hairbrush at his head.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” he asked lazily.

“I need to change,” she told him bluntly. 

“Well, don’t mind me,” Cassian said with mock-politeness. He made a point of crossing his ankles so his long legs spread across the carpet. “I’ll just wait here.”

“Get out,” she hissed between gritted teeth.

Cassian’s laugh was low and sensual, but he hauled himself to his feet nevertheless. 

“One day you’ll let me stay,” he promised.

Her blood thrummed at the words and fear stabbed through her. Or was it anticipation? Sometimes she wasn’t sure.

Straightening her back, Nesta rose up tall in her seat — it was her own personal defence mechanism and it hadn’t failed her yet.

“In your dreams,” she snapped.

Cassian’s eyes gleamed in a way that told her he was about to say something that made her uncomfortable, but when he spoke, his voice lacked its blatant teasing. “I always dream of you, Nesta. Don’t take long getting ready. We don’t want to lose the light.” 

After he’d left, Nesta realised she’d spat that insult at him before. Only this time he hadn’t teased her back.

* * *

Cassian had flown them to the west of the Night Court; over the craggy mountains and the pine green of The Steppes, until Nesta could spot the vast mass of moving blue ahead of them, and the scent of sea salt that carried on the wind.

The smell reminded her of her father after he had come back from a long trip, his clothing laced with ocean spray and fresh air. The memory made her gut twist, and all she saw as they descended were those lifeless, unseeing eyes and her father’s broken neck.

Cassian set them down on frost-bitten grass at the edge of the coast. Below them, the ocean crashed against the rugged white cliffs, the water a dark sea green interspersed with the froth of the surf.

“On a good day you can see the white cliffs of Montesere,” Cassian told Nesta. He was standing close beside her and his voice was deep and low in her ear — masculine. It broke her out of her morbid memory. “Thankfully the winds are low today. I wouldn’t want you walking here without wings.”

He flashed her a grin then that was all teeth. He looked wild and at home here — as if he were part of the rough, unbroken landscape. “Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure to catch you if the wind does carry you off.”

Nesta made an unimpressed sound at the rear of her throat but she didn’t throw back a retort. Because he would catch her, she knew.

“Which way?” she asked instead, screwing up her eyes. 

The sky was unsurprisingly streaked with dark, gloomy clouds which suspended over the water. It provided a moody scenery that soothed Nesta’s soul. Here, the sea, weather and wind were unpredictable and entirely their own entity. It made her feel alive. 

Cassian pointed to their left — to the white coastal path that wound itself five or so feet from the cliff’s edge. “There’s a great view a few miles away.”

Nesta shrugged. “Fine.”

They walked in silence for a long while. Cassian took the lead and she watched his broad, larger-than-life frame as he easily stepped his way up the path. 

Displaced from the camp, Cassian’s stance was relaxed. He was dressed casually too — his hair was now in a messy bun rather than the tight top knot he usually sported for sparring, and he was wearing an olive tunic over his leathers, which was fastened tight around his hips with a black belt. For once, the belt was devoid of weapons. Nesta supposed if anything happened he had his siphons to magic whatever weapon he wanted. She had seen him do that in battle — his weapons glazed with ruby light — as he cut down opponent after opponent. 

“I’ve never known you to take a day off.”

The words left her before she could stop them, her curiosity too fierce to quell. Apart from their nighttime flights, they had never spent time together that wasn’t related to her training, and certainly not in the day. 

Cassian glanced sideways at her as he made his way up a sloping crest in the path, before he trained his eyes back to the ground. “I’m supposed to take weekends.”

“Why don’t you?”

Cassian shrugged. “I do when it’s quiet — usually when I’m back in Velaris. Things are… turbulent at the moment.”

Nesta knew that. She wasn’t stupid. She had heard about the dissent in the camps after the war. The Illyrian’s had lost huge numbers and what for? A court that only acknowledged them when they needed warriors but left them to their own devices otherwise.

“Things are getting worse in the camps,” she said. 

She didn’t ask — she already knew the answer. 

Cassian’s expression turned grim. “Yes.”

“So why take today off? It’s a Tuesday.”

Cassian’s dark eyes trained back on her and she wanted to look away. She wasn’t sure why. 

“Is it so unbelievable that I wanted to spend time with you?”

Again, that cocky, confident smile was nowhere to be found and she faltered, her breath catching in her throat. Was he being serious? She couldn't tell. Sometimes Cassian was an open book… yet, sometimes she found him completely unreadable. It infuriated her.

Refusing to believe he was sincere, she pressed, “ _And?_ ”

“ _And_ I got fed some information at the peace negotiations that made me want to take a day off,” he admitted.

That made more sense. Cassian’s commitment to his armies was unwavering and nothing got in the way of his job. He’d been running himself ragged ever since they’d arrived in Illyria and she knew he still struggled to sleep sometimes. On a few occasions during the middle of the night, Nesta had found him on the couch passed out cold and surrounded by papers. From the dread lining her stomach she knew he’d had a nightmare and had failed to get back sleep, opting to do some work instead. 

He always looked so tired the next morning, those dark smudges prominent beneath his eyes, that the morning Cassian had left for the Dawn court, she had placed a mug of coffee in front of him at the breakfast table. Cassian didn’t comment — Nesta assumed he was too exhausted — he had just nodded in thanks and drank deeply from the earthenware mug as if his life depended on it. 

Ahead of her, Cassian pulled up short. They had arrived at a point in the land where the lush green of the pine valley ran through their trail to meet the sea. Below them, the land fell sharply before it rose up just as abruptly. And in the rock, hundreds of steps had been carved through the grass and into the chalk. It was punishing yet utterly beautiful. 

If she were an artist like Feyre, Nesta would have painted it. 

“Watch your footing,” Cassian instructed as she started to make her way down. Her foot slipped on the wet grass and loose stone as he spoke and Cassian’s hand shot out to steady her. “The path can be treacherous here.”

Cassian wasn’t wrong. Nesta spent so much time looking at where she was putting her feet that she couldn’t survey the beauty around her. 

They were half way down the slope when Cassian picked up their conversation. “There’s a war lord’s son at the Ironcrest camp who is the cause of the core dissent — he’s called Kallon. He’s an unseasoned whelp with a loose jaw and an arrogance that rivals all of the other Illyrian lordlings, including Ragar.”

Nesta couldn’t imagine anyone being more unpleasant than Ragar. Even now, the sight of that raw pink scar that protruded up his neck made her stomach turn, but not so much as the way he had leered at her. She’d seen the confidence behind that look before and it hadn’t ended well.

“If Kallon is unseasoned, where did he gain the confidence to spread dissent?” she asked.

“Entitlement,” Cassian replied, his voice dripping with disgust. “All of the Illyrian lords and their sons have it. It all traces back to the first Illyrian warriors of Prythian. The lords claim title to an ancestry that is revered above all in Illyria; they believe to have Enalius's power in their blood. Rumour has it that’s why lords require more siphons than the rest of us common muck.”

“You have seven,” Nesta pointed out drily. “So does Azriel. Is he not a bastard, too?”

“Azriel’s father was a lord, so we know some of his power comes direct from ancestry.”

“And you?”

The set of Cassian’s shoulders became solid. “I don’t know,” he said shortly, in a way that told her the subject was not up for discussion.

Nesta understood not wanting to divulge in certain parts of your history, so she allowed him to continue, “After the first war, legend states that Enalius gave a small drop of his blood to each of the lord’s who fought against Vanth. It was a gift designed to give the Illyrian’s — the lowest born faeries — the upper hand should they need to defeat demons in the future. That’s when siphons first came into use; they were required to channel the Killing Power and manifest it into something useful, like weapons.”

Cassian snorted then. “Of course, the bloodline soon expanded out of elitist circles as lords, unable to keep their cocks in their pants, started to bed females outside of their marriage vows. In those cases, the bloodline became diluted when and if those bastards later reproduced. That’s why common foot soldiers usually only require one siphon at best, whereas the lords require more. They have a larger amount of Killing Power flowing through their veins.”

“They call you Lord of Bloodshed,” Nesta pointed out. She had heard the Illyrian’s during the war; the way they spoke in hushed awe of the bastard General who cut down other warriors as if they were part of his orchestrated dance.

Another harsh snort. “Lord of Bloodshed, Prince of Bastards... I’ve heard them all. I’m no lord and I’m certainly no prince.”

“Because you don’t want the titles or because you don’t think you’re worthy?”

Nesta already knew the answer: _both_. Cassian turned his head sharply, but she only lifted her chin to level her gaze with his. His irises had turned hard and wary, yet somehow Nesta found herself drawn to him more than ever.

“Does it matter?” he asked in a low voice.

Nesta did not answer. She only stared him down from her place on the wedge of carved rock above him. Eventually, Cassian huffed a disgruntled laugh. “One day I will self-combust as a result of one of your glares.”

“Good,” she snapped, which only resulted in another rasped laugh. “Why don’t you just challenge Kallon and be done with it? If he’s unseasoned, surely he’s no match.”

“What he is doing is not illegal,” Cassian replied tersely. The way he spoke told her this was a conversation he had partaken in before, no doubt with his brothers. “To kill him would make him a martyr. It could fuel the movement rather than settle it. It’s not a risk I will take.”

They continued in silence as they continued to traverse the steps. Whilst Cassian cleared them without any issues, Nesta took her time, wary of the loose stone that had already threatened to send her flying.

“What Azriel told me yesterday,” Cassian added, as he cleared the steps with his unnaturally long legs, “is that some of the lords sons from different camps have recently met in a neutral location.”

“That’s unusual?” Nesta asked. 

She looked up from the path for an answer just as she stepped down from a particularly steep drop. Her foot slipped on loose stone and Cassian’s hand shot out to steady her as if on instinct, his fingers closing around her arm.

His reply was so close to her ear that it sent chills down her spine. “It’s unheard of.”

He let go of her when she was upright and gave his head an angry shake. His loose bun bobbed at the movement and he tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “What you saw in the war is rare — usually Illyrian’s from other camps do not work together. There are rivalries amongst the clans that have been entrenched for centuries. Raids and attacks are not uncommon when tensions become too high. Of course, alliances have been made in the past. Notoriously Windhaven and Forktail have struck necessary partnerships, but Ironcrest is the harshest of the camps, where tradition is engrained deep. They are notorious for killing first and asking questions second. Unfortunately, they also have exceptional warriors. Across all of the camps, they produce the warriors with the most Killing Power.”

Cassian leapt down a particularly steep chunk of the rock with an ease that irritated Nesta. He turned and offered her a hand but she ignored it. Trying to retain as much dignity as possible, she sat down and eased herself off the edge, before dropping the few feet to the floor.

Unperturbed by her rebuff, Cassian only said, “For many centuries, Ironcrest has been the most independent of the clans and just barely abides by Night Court law. They have the highest rate of wing clippings and resist being ruled by their High Lord. They have long believed that Illyria should be its own nation.”

Cassian paused as he took a large leap and landed two steps down rather than one. Nesta bit back an irritated sound, cautiously following behind him. 

“Ironcrest is by no means the only clan to believe in independence,” Cassian continued. “All of the camps are resentful to be ruled from afar, but never before have lordlings united like this. We think that’s what Kallon is aiming for; to ignite the beliefs of the Illyrian communities that Illyria should be independent from Rhys’ rule and uniting them under that common cause. He is especially focussing his efforts on those who have lost loved ones during the war; bereaving families — mostly females and the younger Illyrian’s who are impressionable and unseasoned in war.”

Nesta stopped abruptly at the gravitas of the statement. “You think they are trying to overthrow their High Lord?”

Cassian’s snarl was soft, but it didn’t make it any less threatening. “I wouldn’t put it past that arrogant whelp to cause a huge amount of shit that has nothing but dire consequences. My race would go backwards rather than forward under his traditionalist values. The females and bastards would suffer more than anyone else. I will not allow it to happen. I would rather _die_ then let it happen.”

His voice was full of a rage that Nesta understood too well. Paired with his nightmares and the weight of the future of Illyria on his shoulders, Nesta wasn’t surprised that Cassian was barely sleeping. She wondered if his friends had noticed the quiet exhaustion that had slowly been taking hold of him. Cassian was excellent at pretending he was fine, preferring to suffer alone, but she hoped that his brothers had detected the worry that was starting to take up permanent residence on his face. 

“I thought your High Lord was more powerful than anyone in Prythian?” Nesta asked, thinking of her sister’s mate and the arrogant way he had made her knees buckle before she was banished.

She did not soften the stress she placed on _High Lord_ or the disdain with which she said it. She knew it didn’t go unnoticed, but Cassian didn’t comment.

“He is the most powerful,” Cassian confirmed.

“Then Kallon and those lordlings aren’t a true threat to his position, are they?”

Silence fell between them for a minute as the steps become far steeper. Sensing how Nesta had started to struggle to navigate them, Cassian jumped down a particularly deep step and held his hands out to her. 

Scowling, Nesta took them this time. 

Cassian’s dark expression vanished as he grinned up at her. “You can jump into my arms now.”

With a hiss, Nesta allowed his hands to move and  span her waist as she leapt the distance. 

More than once, Nesta had contemplated how it would feel to have his large hands wrapped around her middle. Despite the weight she had been gaining, they met easily. 

Nesta made a point not to look at him as she held her breath to stop the overwhelming scent of him envelop her. It didn't stop her imagining what his callouses would feel like as they scraped against her bare skin…

As if sensing her unease, Cassian let her go as soon as she was on the ground. 

“Couldn’t you have just flown us across?” Nesta huffed irritably, after he had to do the same a further two times. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Cassian laughed. “You look bewitching when you’re angry at me. Your nose crinkles just _here_.” He tapped a finger to the bridge of her nose, barking another laugh when she batted him away.

“Get off of me,” she snapped. “Continue worrying about your people revolting rather than bothering me.”

“The reason I have taken a day off is so I _don’t_ have to face that problem until tomorrow,” Cassian told her.

Nesta did roll her eyes then, although it was mainly just for show. She knew Cassian was taking the day off so he could mull the information over rather than throwing himself straight back into training, where he wouldn’t having a spare moment to think. Cassian could pretend to be light-hearted as much as he liked, but Nesta knew that sometimes it became his mask to feign joviality — just as hers was to be cold and expressionless.

“Does it bother you that Illyrian’s are used by the Night Court?” she asked. It was something she’d wondered a lot recently and now seemed like a good time to ask about it.

Cassian shrugged. “Illyrian’s are born and bred for battle. Our very DNA is woven with the Killing Power. We are meant to be warriors. It’s our life purpose.”

Nesta frowned and stayed quiet. It was the answer she’d expected, but it didn’t really address her question. 

“Out with it,” Cassian ordered. 

She looked up at him. They had just arrived at the bottom of the valley. The land to their left sloped gently towards the ocean and ahead of them, the uneven steps rose up, up, up to the top of the brutal coastal path.

Just looking at it made her feel nauseous. 

“Out with what?”

“I can tell you have an opinion. You’re too smart not to have one.”

Shrugging, Nesta sidelined the compliment. “Perhaps it’s time your High Lord focussed his attention on improving the lives of Illyrian’s, rather than just calling upon them when war is imminent.”

“The clans like to rule themselves,” Cassian reminded her. “They hate interference.”

“Well, they’re ruling themselves badly.”

Cassian laughed at her outright distaste. 

“That may be true,” he agreed, “but Illyrian’s are proud, stubborn bastards who are opposed to change and the influence of outsiders. Rhys has held back from trying to exert influence over them for fear they would rebel.”

“Do they resist him because he’s High Fae?”

Cassian’s chin dipped. “Yes, they believe an Illyrian should rule. Az and I might be part of his Inner Circle but we are both bastards. They see it as a personal offence that I rule the armies in place of one of the war lords.”

Nesta snorted. She had a feeling that if a war lord ran the armies then it would only cause more fighting between the clans, but she figured Cassian knew that already. 

“You say that some of the females are involved in the dissent?” she asked instead.

Cassian nodded. “It’s a smart move because the females are so easily influenced. Many are now a part of the widows camps or are trying to feed too many mouths on meagre earnings.”

Nesta screwed her nose up in disgust. 

“I liked your idea about education this morning,” Cassian told her seriously. “Illyrian’s are left to be home schooled and most receive no education at all. If it wasn’t for Rhys’s mother, I would have been completely illiterate. I struggled to learn to read late as it was.”

There was something in his voice that made Nesta peer a little closer at him. 

“Azriel was better at school than me,” he confessed, a hint of pink staining his cheeks. It was said with the sort of irritation that often came when comparing yourself to a sibling. “I’ve always been better suited to killing than learning.”

Mortified, Nesta recalled how she had sneered at Cassian’s irregular handwriting. From what she had gleaned, Cassian hadn’t learnt to write until he was fourteen. And her sister had been _twenty_. The thought was awful to swallow. Nesta had never even thought to contemplate whether Feyre could read. She’d always assumed her sister wasn’t a competent reader rather than being entirely illiterate. 

Even though she had never let it show, Nesta had burned with shame when she found out. Nesta’s ability to read well came through a love of books rather than her mother and father’s dedication to their daughter’s education, but being the eldest child, she wouldn’t deny that she’d had a head start. She hadn’t even contemplated that Feyre — the sister who was flung into poverty at the youngest age — hadn’t received the same treatment. Nesta had been too preoccupied with herself to care.

If Nesta really thought about it, that was why she was so adamant Roksana should learn to read. Words were Nesta’s _weapons_. They could be as sharp as any dagger and just as useful.

“If you made education compulsory until the age of fourteen you could start shaping the generation you need to improve things in the camps,” Nesta told Cassian, purposefully staring out at the view rather than at him. “It would provide shelter and a good meal for the orphans and bastards who have nothing. It’s all well and good teaching them to be warriors, but a good education means forming well-educated decisions and opinions. Teaching the girls to fight will do no good if they don’t believe that they are worthy of learning.”

Her lip curled at the thought of Ragar and his friends harassing the females at the bottom of the mountain, and the shape of those battered, flimsy tents that did little to shield them from the wind halfway up the mountain.

When she finally dared to glance back at him, she found that Cassian was staring at her with uncomfortable intensity. His irises were green today and around the pupils, the usual chocolate had taken on a startling amber that made it hard to meet his eye.

She turned away again. 

“Any other thoughts?” he asked her. His voice was slightly hoarse.

Staring out at the valley, Nesta picked a leaf off the nearest bush. She crushed it beneath her fingers. It smelt of lemon. 

“Provide compensation for the families that lost loved ones in the war and can barely fend for themselves. Pay families for putting their children into education. Don’t allow females to be banished from society because some bastard raped them or because their loved ones died.”

Nesta had become angry now and silver mist crackled at her fingertips. There was so much injustice in the world — too much — and it made her _ache_.

“Would you like me to continue?” she asked drily. 

“Please do,” Cassian said, his voice still raw.

He was wearing that lopsided smile again — the smile that was so often laced with sadness. Nesta frequently saw it when he spoke about his people. How often did he try to hide how he was really feeling, Nesta wondered? Was it a method he’d learnt from years of living alone in a battered tent with nothing to his name? 

The thought made Nesta’s power want to roar so fiercely that she tasted embers in her mouth. She stared and stared at the green sloping valley paved by pine and resisted the urge to raise her palms to the sky.

“You think I shouldn’t be teaching them? The girls?” Cassian’s voice was soft and… worried. Nesta knew how much it meant to him, to be teaching them. She knew it had to go beyond the goodness in his heart. Nobody felt that strongly about something without a personal experience to back it up. She wouldn’t ask though. Nesta didn’t like to pry. 

“No, I think you should be teaching them,” she assured him. This time she did meet his eye. “I think everyone should learn how to fight, but other things need to happen alongside that if you want females to make their own decisions. They need to believe they are worthy of defending themselves.”

Cassian’s nod was slow and respectful. He was really listening to her. How many times had Nesta spoken only for her words to be discarded? For all Cassian’s faults, he had never failed to listen to what she was saying since she had moved to Windhaven. It had to be the warrior in him, that allowed him to examine and dissect words so aptly. It was a gift she had always had too — to read others — and whilst Cassian always looked at her like she was a puzzle he was trying to figure out, sometimes Nesta thought they were actually the two pieces in the puzzle that fit together. 

The thought made her uncomfortable.

“I don’t see this view,” she clipped abruptly.

Cassian’s eyes lost their depth and seriousness and in its wake, they sparked.

“It’s just up the steps,” he told her, his easy grin a stark contrast to the pained expression moments before. “Ready for some punishment?”

Nesta just snorted and pushed past him. 

By the time she was at the top, her stomach was churning and her lungs were burning with the effort.

It irritated her how unaffected Cassian was. He was out of breath as he ascended the last few steps, but he soon recovered quickly. Whilst Nesta supposed his fitness was unparalleled, it didn’t stop her from shooting daggers at him as she gave in to the urge to bend over her knees and gasp for air.

Cassian grinned as if he knew what she was thinking.

“Look,” he ordered after a few minutes, when she was still folded in half and panting for breath. He placed a hand on her arm to encourage her to straighten up. 

Nesta felt the warmth of it, even through her thick flying leathers. 

“Oh,” she said simply. 

The word fell out before she could help it, because the view before her was sensational. 

To her left, the land ran out into a sharp ledge that pointed over the sea, and ten or so metres from that in the water, were a series of white rugged arches. They ran towards the horizon, rising and falling away, seemingly stretching for what felt like miles. The rocks were rough and crumbling in places, their tops covered in soft, fuzzy moss, the colour so startling it was almost a smattering of fluorescent greens and yellows. Some arches had collapsed all together, leaving only ragged pillars that towered magnificently out of the water.

“They are called _Kamanam_ ,” Cassian told her, his voice easily falling into the deep lilt of Illyrian. “It means ‘The Arches’ in the common language. Legend has it that they used to form a bridge that ran all the way to Montesere.”

A gentle smile had bloomed across his face at her stunned silence. It wasn’t cocky but pleased. It was the same smile he wore whenever they flew at night and Nesta stared and stared at the stars. Even though Cassian had flown her to many beautiful spots, Nesta still hadn’t seen anything that rivalled the mountain that was stacked like steps, the waterfall running through it like a carpet runner until it met the forest floor,

“Come,” Cassian urged, “you get an even better view if we walk to the cliff point.”

“Have you ever flown to stand on... _Kamanar_?” Nesta asked, once they had reached the tip of the ledge. 

She looked up at him for correction on her pronunciation. She knew it had been wrong the moment the word left her lips. 

Cassian was watching her rather than the view, the corners of his lips still tipped upwards.

“ _Kamanam_ ,” he corrected. “And no, it’s a sign of disrespect to stand on a compromised ancient structure. _However,_ I may have flown between the arches when I was younger.” 

He grinned then, the etch of a memory carved into his expression. “Azriel, Rhys and I used to have races to see who could weave through the arches the fastest.”

In her mind’s eye, Nesta could see three dark-haired boys jostling one another as they weaved through the rock. “Who won?”

Cassian cocked an eyebrow at her. “Who do you think?”

“I want to irritate you by saying Azriel,” she admitted, as she stared out at the rocky structures, “but I’m guessing you’re the strongest flyer.”

Rich, smooth laughter sounded in her ear. “Azriel would be pleased that you said that, but you’re right, it was always me. Azriel learnt to fly late, so he was always the slowest. We used to pretend it was a training exercise for him, but really we were just cocky shits desperate to show off.”

Unable to help it, Nesta’s lips twitched. She could certainly imagine Cassian doing _that._

“Should I be worried that you’re always much nicer to Azriel than you are to me?”

Cassian’s voice was still close to her ear. The prolonged proximity was becoming more and more frequent. 

It still made her nervous.

“Azriel doesn’t follow me around like the irritating, clingy bat that you are,” she replied shortly, but as usual Cassian wasn’t offended. If anything, he looked delighted at the insult.

“I’m better looking, though,” he informed her. 

His voice held such sincerity that she twisted round to stare up at him in disbelief. 

The twinkle in his eyes told her he was teasing, but it didn’t stop her from flicking her eyes up to the sky. “Azriel looks like he’s been carved out of stone. You look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards.”

“I’m ruggedly handsome,” Cassian corrected, solemnly placing a large hand over his heart as if she had wounded him.

Nesta sigh was one of long-suffering. “You’re bringing this back to looks? Honestly, you’re ancient yet you act like a small child.”

Cassian’s cry was one of outrage, but his eyes still danced with amusement. “I am not ancient.”

Nesta snorted. “I am not even one-twenty-fourth your age. In human years you would have lived over six lifetimes. That makes you undeniably old.”

In her stomach, Nesta suddenly felt uneasy. The light in Cassian’s eyes faded and his lips parted. 

“It makes me wise,” Cassian countered after a moment. 

He cocked his head again, trying to read her. 

The action annoyed her. It meant he was working out that there was no way her math was that fast. It told him she’d thought about their age difference before. 

Realising her mistake, Nesta felt that cold chill seep into her bones. It made her sharp and angry — it was a warning to shut things down whilst she still could. 

“You’d think it would make you wise, wouldn’t you?” Nesta said off-handedly. “Yet you and your happy little friends push down your problems and pretend you’re happy when you’re not.”

Cassian looked at her sharply. “Excuse me?”

She wanted to snap at him but she didn’t, she merely shrugged.

“And how would you know that, Nesta?”

He was pushing her and they both knew it — to confess what she hadn’t truly wanted to voice for a long time. 

She didn’t want to look at him anymore, so she turned away. “You all pretend you’re fine, but I can feel your emotions sometimes. None of you are ok, yet you punish me for feeling the same way but dealing with it differently.”

They’d spoken briefly before about her ability to sense others, but that had only been to do with Mas. Nesta had cut Cassian off from pushing her for more information and to her surprise, he had let the subject drop. But too many times had Nesta had to suffer in the company of the Inner Circle and bear witness to their silent pain and suffering. It had incensed Nesta to have to listen to them pretend everything was fine when her trauma raged and snapped at her heels. 

Because whilst they could pretend, she could not. For once her trusty mask had failed her. The damage was so plainly out in the open for everyone to see that Nesta had retreated in defeat, mortified and so _angry_ that she wanted to burn with it. 

“Does it hurt? To feel all of that?”

Of all the questions Nesta had expected Cassian to ask, that wasn’t it. 

“Yes,” she said shortly. 

“Can you feel it all the time?”

“No,” Nesta said with a frown. “I don’t know. It’s usually a strong emotion. If someone is scared or in pain.” Then suddenly realising what he might be insinuating, she snapped, “I’m not a snoop. You think I like filtering through others emotions? That I want to be even sadder and angrier because that’s what others are feeling?

She started walking because she didn’t want to be still. The movement made the confession better. She focussed on the burn in her legs instead. They were tired from her morning run and the brutal climb up the steps. 

Cassian followed her without protesting as they walked along the cliff past the arches. The grass was soft and springy under her feet, the sensation the opposite of how she felt. To finally admit the gravitas of what she could do out loud was terrifying. Panic was already clawing at her throat and her gut was telling her to run. Mist started to seep from her fingers and she clenched her hands into fists so hard that her fingernails bit half moons into her skin. The pain grounded her.

“That makes sense that you feel intense emotion,” Cassian called from behind her — clearly when he thought it was safe to do so. He was staring at the ground rather than at her, but she knew he’d clocked her mist. “When someone is feeling strongly that’s when they’re most likely to be letting their guard down. It’s interesting you can feel it from a distance, though. Even Az can’t do that.”

Nesta cut a sharp, sideways glance at him. “You think something is wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Cassian assured her. He spoke pointedly — a valiant effort to persuade her that she was neither broken or flawed. “I think it’s a powerful talent. It means you can sense when others are in danger.”

Nesta pursed her lips. 

“I don’t think it’s always right,” she confessed eventually.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I think it’s wrong sometimes,” she snapped.

Unperturbed, Cassian remained patient. “Yes, but _why_ do you think it’s wrong?”

There was no drawl, no _sweetheart_ thrown into the mix. Oh, they’d come a long way, even Nesta could admit that. 

She frowned up at the charcoal sky, knowing she was going to regret her next words. “That night I felt something awry with Mas, I thought something had happened to you, too.”

Cassian stopped and stared at her. “Me?”

“A few hours before you got home, I felt you panic.”

“Maybe it was someone else’s?”

“No,” Nesta told him firmly. “It was yours. I… it smelt like you.”

She felt her cheeks burn as a grin blossomed across Cassian’s face. “It smelt like me? What do I smell like?”

“Don’t tease me.” She forced the words out through clenched teeth. “I can’t explain it. I can tell whose emotions are who by their scent. It’s to do with memory, I think. It’s the same with places.”

“Places?”

“Some places _feel_ a certain way. I think it’s when something significant has happened there. I can sense emotions in the ground, as if a memory has imprinted itself on the earth.”

Cassian looked very interested now. He had moved closer to her, their sides only an inch or so apart as they walked. “What sort of places?”

“I don’t know…” Nesta screwed up her face as she tried to recollect. “The widows camp is swimming with it, and… that desolate camp we went to train at — something bad happened there.”

Cassian’s usually tan face had paled. “You could sense it there? Did you see anything?”

“I’m not a seer,” Nesta reminded him curtly. “You’ll need to ask my sister about that.” 

She glanced sideways at Cassian. He had turned unusually quiet. “What happened there?”

“Bad things,” Cassian replied tightly. Then after a pregnant pause, he sighed, “I grew up there. It used to be the Spearhead camp.”

The way he spoke brought her up short. His words seemed normal yet there was an undeniable weight to them. He was not smiling or joking and the seriousness to his expression was a rare crack in his jovial armour. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it.

She rarely apologised so she didn’t judge Cassian for the blatant surprise which flitted across his features. “What for?”

“You’re sad.”

Cassian’s small smile didn’t reach his eyes as he gestured for her to follow the path to their right; down a steep slope into the forest. Nesta was thankful for her headband as her feet crunched against twigs and pine needles. 

“Is that because you felt it or because you can read it on my expression?” Cassian asked. He feigned lightness but it didn’t convince Nesta — a painful ache had settled in her stomach amidst the scent of pine and musk. 

“Both,” she admitted. 

They trekked through the forest for a few minutes in silence. The further they stepped into the woodland, the darker it got. Although the winter light was fading, it wasn’t so much to do with the promise of dusk, but the knowledge that the forest was ancient and ruled by no law but its own. The more they progressed through the thick of it, the more they allowed themselves to become part of the untamed wilderness, and whilst Cassian seemed unbothered by that knowledge, Nesta found herself tense.

The trees and foliage became thicker and more unruly. Cassian, who had overtaken her on the narrow track to lead the way, held back a branch so Nesta could keep to the path. 

“I think I told you I was thrown into the Windhaven camp when I was eight to see if I lived or survived?” Cassian asked.

Nesta made a noise to indicate she remembered. She hadn’t been able to forget their first night flight together when he had told her about how he had come to Windhaven. Even now, she could recall how his words had made her go hot and cold all over; how the confession had made her throat unbearably tight and her skin itch as that power moved and moved and _moved_ in her veins, as she imagined a small boy cast into a camp where he had nothing and no-one.

It made her want to shatter things and turn numb at the same time. 

“They tore me from my mother. When I was finally old enough to hunt her down, I found out the males at the camp had worked her until she died. They wouldn’t tell me where they buried her. If they even bothered to.” 

Cassian’s green eyes were sad and laced with the primeval sort of rage that came with the inability to mourn. 

A shocked pause sprung between them and Nesta swallowed to try and rid herself of the lump in her throat. She may be an orphan, but at least she knew what had happened to both of her parents — she had witnessed both of their deaths and there was no doubt over their fate. She was by no means done grieving, but to not know what had happened...

“I hope you killed them.” Her words came out hoarse and untethered. They floated amongst the trees, the sound echoing and vibrating in the deathly quiet. 

“I ripped them apart bit by bit and they still didn’t tell me where she was,” Cassian confessed roughly. His throat bobbed tellingly. “That’s probably what you felt — their fear.”

An indefinite amount of time passed. For once Nesta was at a loss of what to say or do. Silver hissed through her veins; a serpent slithering intense and awake. Around them, the air was growing taut, like a predator waiting to spring. 

A twig snapped and it took everything in Nesta not to whirl around.

“You don’t look disgusted,” Cassian said finally.

Nesta’s brow knitted together in confusion. “Why should I be? They deserved everything you did to them. They deserved _worse_.”

The words did nothing to placate Cassian. If anything, his expression hardened even further. “What I did was so awful that nobody would live there afterwards. They wouldn’t even go back to collect their belongings.”

In her mind’s eye, Nesta saw the deserted camp; the battered canvas and the discarded possessions, as if the Illyrian’s had grabbed what they couldn’t live without and shot to the skies, never to return. 

When Cassian had first set her down in that camp amongst the snow drift, memory had hit her like a blow to the gut. She had felt so many emotions all at once. They had wrenched through her, tearing her from the inside out. It had put her on edge — it had made her snap, in the end. Cassian may have pushed her too far that day but the raw emotion ingrained in the stone had added fuel to her fire when she had made burnt the clearing to ash.

Cassian had been in a bad mood that day, too. He’d even said; _I don’t like it here._ The question was why had he brought her there at all? Why relive the torment just so she could fling around some petty fire?

“Fear was just the topmost layer,” Nesta told him, knowing that he needed to hear this — to know that he was not a monster. “There was also pain and suffering. It ran deep into the earth, as if it had been embedded there for centuries. You did those Illyrian’s living there a favour allowing them to leave somewhere so horrible. Mas doesn’t regret it, does she?”

“No…” Cassian started, but he didn’t sound convinced. 

In fact, he looked so conflicted that Nesta nearly reached out to comfort him. Instead, she did what she’d never done before — she tried to send an emotion back. Thawing that shield of ice, Nesta waited until there was the smallest of gaps, before she sent a sensation to soothe.

She knew it had worked because Cassian’s head snapped to hers, his eyes wide, but she had already made sure that she was concentrating on the path ahead of her.

Feigning ignorance, Nesta picked her way along the downwards slope before them. It led to a dell full of large, moss-lined boulders at the bottom. The two largest stones rose to sharp points, leaning together so that their tips nearly touched. The makeshift archway called to her; light in the darkness, urging her to move forward and in the shadows, a flash of fangs the colour of steel.

That was when Nesta realised that they were not alone.

A chittering sound skittered around the clearing. The sound was awful — a high-pitched laugh that chilled her very bones until they cracked with splintering ice. 

Nesta’s face drained of blood and she cried out before her body had even turned, “ _Cassian_.”

“ _Nesta_.”

They had called to one another in unison.

Ruby flared in the dark, the shape of a sword taking form in Cassian’s fighting hand as the other reached for her. His hand closed around her leathers, tugging him to her just as that single sound of laughter was joined with more awful cackling that had all of the hairs standing up on Nesta’s arms. 

Around them, out of the darkness, they came.

A pack of four-legged animals sloped out of the foliage surrounding the dell. They were roughly the size of a lion, their unnaturally long necks giving way to the head of a bear with rounded, jet black ears that twitched in anticipation of the hunt. Hunchbacked bodies sloped down to reveal a short, stubby tail, as if the extent of it had been hacked off with an axe. At the head, huge, pointed canines dripped with saliva and the beasts russet eyes — the same colour as their shaggy, spotted fur — gleamed with promise as they prowled towards she and Cassian. 

And all the while, that chittering laughter echoed around them, bouncing unpredictably off the trees and rocks.

Cassian pressed his back to Nesta’s as the beasts started to close in on them from every angle. His voice was so low it was barely audible, but she heard it as if he were speaking inside of her head, “You need to listen to me, sweetheart. You see those two boulders that are leaning together? When I tell you to, I need you to blast your power between them. Don’t hesitate.”

Fear pierced through Nesta, the tang of it as sharp as blood on her tongue. Together they had started to move, rotating to keep an eye on every enemy, just as he had taught her during their sparring lessons. 

Cassian’s siphons flared scarlet into the sky, but no more weapons came forth.

“ _No._ ” The word burst fiercely from Nesta. She wanted to twist to stare into his eyes, to make him understand that she couldn’t leave him to fight them alone. There were too many of them. More had slunk out between the trees and were tracking their way down the dip in the earth. “I can help—”

“Our only chance of safety is if you do what I say. You can do it. Expel it all, don’t hesitate. Take out the fucking kerits if they get in the way, but focus it between the boulders.”

“Please—” Nesta breathed. She didn’t know what she was pleading with him about. That she didn’t want to be doing this with him again; that she didn’t want to feel the promise of death in her bones; that she didn’t want to die, not when she had just started to feel alive again.

“Promise me, Nesta.”

But she didn’t have time to promise. 

A beast leapt towards Cassian, its body hunching and arching as it moved with horrifying speed towards them. Cassian’s steel flashed through the air, blood painting the air black. It found purchase on her face and in her hair, but Nesta barely noticed it. Silver surged beneath her skin, coursing through her veins with terrifying speed as another beast sprung towards her from her right, just as two more attacked Cassian.

Power flew from her palms without Nesta giving it a single thought. Silver fire struck the kerit straight in the face. She heard it shriek, the sound not unlike nails raking down a chalkboard, but Nesta did not wait to watch it burn. Flames blazing, Nesta lurched her palms towards another beast that had flung itself towards her, this time to her left. Her flames did not stop as she moved, and a horizontal line of fire seared through the air and through four-legged bodies. 

Cackling was replaced with more shrieking as silver consumed fur, clearing the path ahead of her.

“Aim it between the boulders,” Cassian cried from behind her, as her power started to sputter. He had magicked another sword into his hand and his arms were moving independently of each other, slashing and cutting as beasts screeched and fell. “It’s a part of you, sweetheart. _You_ command it. Don’t let it stop.”

Exhaustion was already lining her bones but Nesta gritted her teeth, embracing that hum of power in her veins. Using every muscle in her body she flung her magic across the clearing. 

For once, her aim was true. Blazing, spitting fire tangled with the sound of death as it flew between the boulders, and then a deafening, reverberating boom. The noise cracked through the forest like a whip, drowning out all other noise. The force of it should have threatened to throw Nesta backwards, but invisible hands held her up, freezing her in place…

Wide-eyed, Nesta watched as her fire fought against the invisible barrier that hung between the boulders. Her magic travelled from her palms unconsciously, pouring towards the shield like it was being sucked into a black hole. Unable to pierce the barrier, her power flew upwards, following the curve of what was undeniably protective magic as it sealed off a portion of the forest. The dome shone golden as her silver melted into the surface, eaten alive by whatever magic had been cast there.

Behind her, Nesta heard Cassian swear. Scarlet flared again and again like a warning beacon, but she could not drop her hands; the connection had been made and somehow Nesta knew that it would not stop until she had nothing left. Her body started to shake from the intensity of it all, yet silver fire still poured forth, until eventually it started to splutter. 

Finally — _finally_ — steel sparks spat through the clearing before they died, her power utterly spent.

Suddenly, those invisible hands dropped and Nesta was thrown backwards.

She hit a warm, hard chest and strong arms wound around her torso - _Cassian_. His heartbeat was hurtling itself against his ribcage, the sensation hammering insistently against her back. She scrambled to stand — to ready herself for more of the laughing beasts — but Cassian’s grip on her tightened.

“ _Nesta,_ it’s ok. They’re gone. You did it.”

The words had her sagging in relief and Cassian dropped to his knees, lowering them fully to the ground. Black blood was pooled around them and scattered throughout the dell were lifeless lumps of fur and charcoaled remains. 

In the depths of her rational mind, Nesta knew she should be retching, but the connection didn’t reach her stomach. Instead, she twisted to stare up at Cassian. His head was bowed over her and whilst his face was covered in black blood and his hair was matted and tangled, she found purchase in those hazel eyes.

“What was that?” she breathed. “What were _they_?”

Cassian opened his mouth to reply just as emerald streaked through the sky.

Before Nesta had time to even think, Cassian had hauled her to her feet. 

“Stay behind me,” he barked. 

His siphons flared ruby, the lights flashing a few feet into the air before they died. Cassian repeated the action, but still no weapons came forth, as if his magic wasn’t working.

Panic beat in Nesta’s mouth, the thud of her pulse pounding in her skull, in her veins… She had already expelled all of her power. She had nothing left to give…

A male shot into the clearing, his feet landing on the floor with a thud so loud it felt as if the earth trembled beneath them. He was dressed head-to-toe in Illyrian leathers and on his chest and knees were emerald siphons that were glowing with an energy that Nesta knew from experience was readying to strike. In his arm — an arm that was alight with the same colour of his siphons — was a bow that was already pulled taut, two gleaming arrows nocked and ready to fire. 

And they were pointing straight at them.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys! Such amazing comments from you all this week and I cannot thank you enough! I've never had such a great response to a chapter and it's amazing to hear from you all (especially your theories). I've only just figured out how to check how many subscribers I have to this fic and it's nearly 100 <3 I'm literally blown away!
> 
> This is another 10k chapter (lots of you told me NOT to be concise, so I hope this is a good thing...) I really, really hope you like it. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> p.s And for those of you who didn't see it, I wrote a missing one-shot from Embers & Light this week which went up on A03. It is called Of Books and Timber and is about Cassian building Nesta bookshelves as he promised when Elain and Nesta went to Emerie's shop. So if you are after more Embers & Light content (and lots of Nessian flirting and bonding, then go have a read and let me know your thoughts!)

** Chapter Nineteen  
Nesta **

Emerald blazed threateningly in the dark forest and Nesta’s stomach lurched. 

She wanted to snap at Cassian to move — to do something to stop the Illyrian from firing his arrows — but he remained fixed in place, his siphons winking but unused, as if he were out of power. He was still holding Nesta behind him, his grip tight around her arm. And Nesta knew, as surely as breathing, that he would do anything to make sure that she remained unharmed — even if he had yet to move a muscle.

Slowly, Cassian held up his other hand in surrender. Again, the siphon on the finger straps of his leathers flashed through the darkening forest.

“It’s me, Lorrian.”

Hard hazel eyes scanned over them both and Nesta watched them flicker in recognition as they settled on Cassian. 

With an angry growl, the Illyrian lowered his bow. His wings flared before they retracted back in again, the same way Cassian’s did when he was pissed off. 

“You couldn’t have just warned us of your arrival in your usual fashion, you stupid prick? What the fuck happened to you?”

The males voice was bass and sonorous. It bounced off the trees and rattled through Nesta in a way that made her bones feel brittle. She watched those sharp eyes flit around the dell. His expression turned grim as he took in the charcoaled and bloody remains.

“Fucking kerits, that’s what,” Cassian snapped. “A whole pack of them. Since when do they come this far down from the mountains? We nearly died.”

The males expression turned grim. He kicked at a severed head and Nesta watched it roll into the foliage, tongue still pink and lolling. “I’ve never seen them down here before. What was that silver streak? It looked like fire. It shook the perimeter like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I thought the house was going to come down.”

“That was Nesta,” Cassian explained shortly. “We were trying to get to safety. I thought her magic might pierce through Frawley’s magic. Instead, it felt like a cannon had gone off. It scared off the rest of the kerits and threw me into a boulder.”

Wincing, Cassian brought a hand to his shoulder as if he were remembering the impact. “It near dislocated my shoulder.”

Cassian turned to Nesta then, a critical eye running over her body. Despite her blood splattered face and hair, Nesta was otherwise unharmed. The kerits hadn’t even come close to touching her. She’d incinerated her half circle and Cassian had dealt with his. 

“Any injuries I should know about?” he asked her.

Nesta shook her head, but Cassian’s gaze lingered on her a few moments longer, as if he weren’t sure he believed her. Even she was suffering from disbelief; they had been so outnumbered it seemed a miracle that neither of them were suffering from major injuries. 

When Cassian seemed satisfied she wasn’t hiding anything, he waved a tired hand. “Nesta meet Lorrian. Although Lorrian is Illyria’s best aerial warrior, it would appear your power managed to scare the shit out of him — congratulations.”

The stern expression of the male - Lorrian - did not disappear at the introduction, and Nesta watched him cross his arms tightly across his muscled chest, the green magic of his right arm flaring from the movement. His piercing look was one of a warrior but Nesta did not flinch, she just stared right back. She was well versed in staring down opponents — what was another Illyrian bat?

It only took a few seconds for Cassian’s words to sink in. Lorrian’s eyes cut sharply from Nesta to Cassian. “Are we talking of the female who killed the King of Hybern?”

Cassian’s hand was instantly on the small of Nesta’s back as she stiffened habitually. The gesture was unusual; Cassian rarely touched her without cause. She resisted the urge to bat him away. When Lorrian tracked the movement she knew why Cassian had done it. It was protective — he was telling Lorrian where his loyalties lay.

Deep in the pit of her stomach, Nesta felt something primal growl. 

It made her want to seethe at the same time her body melted into the sound. 

“That would be the very same female,” Cassian said with a lightness that was laced with warning. “Feel free to thank her any time.”

A beat of silence followed as the warrior examined the female before him, but then Lorrian’s hardened expression relaxed, and in its wake — a smile. It transformed his face in the same way Cassian’s changed from General to the male she knew when he was off-duty. It was an intentional crack in his armour and the open vulnerability of the action did not escape Nesta. Never had she been that willing to shed her mask for someone she had met moments before. Even her sisters hadn’t seen all of her.

“Well, why didn’t you say? It’s good to meet you, Nesta Archeron.” 

A large hand was thrust out towards her — the one that wasn’t glazed in emerald light — for Nesta to shake.

Nesta hesitated for a moment before she moved to grasp Lorrian’s hand. His hazel eyes were sincere and his gaze unwavering, and although her movements were stiff and measured, she made sure her handshake was firm when she grasped his own, even if her hands were spotted with blood. 

Lorrian didn’t seem to mind. He bowed his head respectfully at her before he turned to Cassian. It was not a move that Nesta had seen any other Illyrian male do to another female. 

“You had better come inside in case there’s anything else lurking about. Frawley will want to see you and you could both do with cleaning up. When she learns about the kerits, she might not be so pissed that you tried to break through her protective magic.”

Cassian winced. “If the witch bids it, I suppose we better.”

Lorrian barked a laugh as he held up his palm to gap between the boulders. It was identical to what she and Cassian did when they entered the bungalow. Emerald siphons flared and the invisible barrier began to fizzle away from the inside out; a splash of gold in the dark.

Exhaustion was pressing on Nesta so keenly that she had to summon all of her focus into getting her body to move forward. Cassian seemed to sense it, his eyes flickering briefly with remorse as they both followed Lorrian to the gap between the boulders. For a moment, Nesta thought Cassian was going to offer to carry her but he clearly thought better of it, gesturing for her to walk through the pocket before him with that crooked half-smile of his. 

The hole in the protective bubble sealed with more fizzling, golden light as soon as Cassian had passed through. With it came an overwhelming sense of relief. Unlike the woodland they had left behind them, the forest here felt lighter, as if it were completely devoid of threat. Around them, the woody terrain was alive with movement: birds sung in the trees and small animals scuttled amongst the foliage. Even the trees and plants seemed to take on a brighter and more vibrant quality, the green so lush that if Nesta weren’t so weary, she would bend down to run her fingers through the fluffy woodruff with its constant smattering of tiny, white flowers that grew beneath the pine trees. 

“So what actually brought you both here?” 

Lorrian’s voice broke Nesta out of her reverie. He was speaking over his shoulder and he looked at Nesta first before his eyes travelled beyond her to land on Cassian. They were walking in single file down a narrow track between the trees, with Lorrian leading the way and with Cassian at the rear. Nesta had no doubt that it was an intentional positioning from Cassian. She could still feel his urge to protect combined with guilt that laced her stomach. The latter was no doubt eating away at him. He clearly hadn’t thought the barrier would react so strongly to her fire or that they would be in danger in the forest.

“I haven’t seen you for a few months,” Lorrian finished. His pointed look at Cassian told Nesta that a visit was overdue. “I imagine it wasn’t your intention to be hijacked by kerits.”

“I took Nesta to see _Kamanam_ today,” Cassian told Lorrian after he had huffed a dark laugh. “We were close by so I thought we’d say hello. We were surrounded by those cackling shits as we headed down into the dell.”

Lorrian stared at Cassian for a little too long but he only nodded silently to show that he had heard. His siphons glowed and with it, the bow and arrows strapped to his back disappeared. The light encasing his arm also vanished, revealing nothing but air from a few inches below Lorrian’s shoulder. His leathers had been tailored to accommodate for his missing limb, the fabric sewn neatly around the stump.

“And how did you like _Kamanam,_ Nesta?” Lorrian asked. 

Knowing not to stare at the male’s missing arm, Nesta kept her gaze straight ahead. The path had widened and Lorrian dropped back a few steps so he was side-by-side with her. The movement was slightly laboured, as if he were adjusting to the loss of balance. He was watching Nesta with apprehension — as if he were expecting her to recoil. Nesta wanted to tell him that she was broken too and that she didn’t care to judge anybody, but as usual, her throat had become too tight so she flicked her eyes up to meet his head on.

Something that Nesta translated as respect tinged with relief flickered behind Lorrian’s irises, and the muscles in his shoulders relaxed, as she managed to admit, “The Arches are very beautiful.”

_But then we nearly died,_ Nesta wanted to say, but didn’t.

The conversation was such a stark contrast to moments before — casual rather than frenzied — but from the unease laced with pine that sat heavily within her, Nesta knew that this was Cassian’s coping mechanism; feigning joviality because otherwise the gravity of what had happened would be too much. 

And Lorrian seemed to know that, too. 

His head bobbed. “You should come back on a clear day. Get this one to fly you over the water.” He jerked his head to Cassian who was still a few paces behind. “Frawley and I do it even now, and we’ve been living here for years.”

“If you think I’m ancient,” Cassian told Nesta, the low rumble of his voice travelling the distance, “then you should ask Frawley how old she is. She’s never answered me and I’m still burning with curiosity.”

Lorrian chuckled. “Don’t do that, Nesta. Not if you want to live, at least.”

Lorrian’s features were nothing but friendly now and in the dappled light between the trees, Nesta was able to study him more closely. His dark, curly hair was cropped close to his head and flecked with silver. If Lorrian were human, Nesta would guess that he was forty-or-so, but she had no idea what that made him in Fae terms. He was leaner than Cassian, which wasn’t wholly a surprise; Nesta had never met an Illyrian who was larger or stronger than Cassian. Even so, Lorrian’s remaining arm was still corded with impressive muscle and his skin was marked with the same black tattoos, interspersed with scars.

Nesta couldn’t find it in herself to reply to Lorrian. Perhaps she should have felt warier that she was about to meet a witch, but with every step they took through the woodland, the worse she felt. Her brain became more foggy, her limbs weighing her down like lead. And on top of it all, an all-consuming sense of exhaustion had overcome her. 

If she were alone, Nesta would have curled up on the forest floor and made her bed amongst the woodruff and wooly thyme.

“Home sweet home.” 

Lorrian’s words pierced through the fog and Nesta managed to drag her eyes up from the soft undergrowth to look ahead of her. 

They had just navigated a sharp right-hand turn in the dirt path, and in the distance Nesta could make out a large, thatched cottage. The walls were the colour of magnolia and the red brick chimney was spouting soft billowy smoke. 

Yet, whilst it appeared to be a beautiful sanctuary, Nesta found her spine stacking stiffly against her. Nesta hadn’t stepped foot in anyone’s home except Cassian’s in months, and he was the only person who knew she was afraid of fire. How many open and roaring hearths were there going to be in the cottage? How was she going to avoid losing control when already she felt like someone was closing a fist around her windpipes? How was she going to step over threshold without losing it completely? How was she — 

Worry stabbed through Nesta so fiercely that her breath caught. She was so preoccupied in trying to take air into her lungs that she didn’t have a spare thought to identify that it wasn’t her own. As they neared the property, Nesta barely saw the chickens in the coop or the horses in the paddock. She didn’t even notice the honeysuckle — her favourite — that climbed up the exterior walls of the cottage. Her lungs rattled as panic clawed through her. Silver spluttered and died at her fingers, her power still too spent from earlier to protect her. Something cracked inside of her; light rushing into the dark, icy water rushing over warm sand.

“Nesta.” 

In the far distance, she heard her name but it was muffled. She felt as if she were drowning underwater. It felt like the Cauldron all over again.

She choked on air.

“Nesta.” 

This time the sound had a distinctive voice. Something turned inside of her, like a key clicking in a lock, and as her vision started to clear, she made out the large shadowed outline of a male as he stepped towards her. Startled, Nesta flew backwards, an unknown burst of energy taking hold of her. Her hands instinctively balled into fists, but then the scent of pine and musk washed over her and with it came a sense of calm and clarity. 

Slowly, her fists unfurled.

“It’s just me,” Cassian said. His words floated towards her. He was still nothing but shadow; large, muscular body and impressive wings. “I’m going to touch you. Ok?”

A strangled noise emitted from her throat and then a large, warm hand was resting on her cheek.

Unthinkingly, Nesta reached up to grab it. Her fingers closed around the hand as her eyes started to see again. 

Cassian’s face swam into view. Even through the cracked and dried blood, the concern etched upon his face was so stark she knew that he believed himself responsible for her trauma.

Taking her hand, Cassian rested her palm flat over his chest. Beneath leather and skin,she could feel the pounding of his heart as it threw itself hard against his ribcage, and in her stomach… so much guilt the emotion was bitter on her tongue.

“Breathe with me,” he ordered, before he proceed to take a long, slow breath in. 

The sensation of air rushing into his chest was like a balm, and Nesta found herself following his breathing until her lungs no longer rattled and her vision righted completely.

“Is it the chimney?” Cassian asked when her breathing became even, enough that she was no longer gasping. “Or is it... everything that just happened?”

Nesta’s fingers curled around his hand and pressed once into his palm at the same time as she nodded. _Both._

“The fire won’t make any noise,” he promised her. “I’d say I’d take you home, but you look like you’re going to collapse and the flight is over an hour.”

Even as he spoke, she knew that if she insisted he would take her back to Windhaven. There was such sincerity in his voice and expression that it hurt to look at him, so she cast her eyes beyond him to their surroundings. 

Lorrian was nowhere to be found. Dread twisted through her and that panic started to rise again.

“Where—” Nesta started, but her breath had started to shudder again so she trailed off. There was no point in asking anyway. Of course Lorrian had witnessed it all. No doubt Cassian had asked him to go inside to give them some privacy. 

The knowledge was mortifying.

“I asked Lorrian to go inside and silence the fires.” 

He squeezed Nesta’s fingers then. She still hadn’t let go of him. The warmth of his touch was comforting against her ice cold skin. It chased away the numbness that was hovering over her like a threat.

“Lorrian suffers from battle trauma, too,” Cassian told her. “You saw his arm?”

Nesta dipped her chin. The action took all of her effort. 

“He’s fighting a lot of demons. He won’t mention it. Neither will Frawley. She’s Lorrian’s wife. She’s a witch — she can magic the fire so it won’t make any noise.”

Silence stretched between them. Nesta tried to process his words and form a response, but it was too difficult. The heaviness was washing over her again and already she had started to become unfeeling.

As if Cassian could sense that he was losing her, he dragged a coarse thumb over the back of her hand. The sensation was muted, as if it were happening far, far away.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. 

Nesta stared at him. She wanted to frown and ask him why, but words had become difficult again. 

Cassian shook his head. The gesture was remorseful and… he was angry at himself. “I shouldn’t have taken you here. Frawley’s portion of the forest has always been the safest—”

“ _Cassian_.”

Cassian broke off as a small, petite female walked briskly towards them. She was wearing a long smock dress which was belted loosely at the waist with leather and made up of different shades of grey. The way her skirts swished around her as she moved gave off the illusion that she was walking through smoke. Pure, white hair fell just below the female’s shoulders and as she came closer, Nesta saw that her eyes were different colours; the left honey brown and the right ice blue. The effect was so startling that half of her face seemed to be bathed in light and the other in dark. 

“You scared the shit out of my husband,” she told Cassian brusquely, as she drew up short in front of them.

Cassian made a noise in the back of his throat. The sound reverberated through Nesta. “Did he tell you about the kerits?”

The female — Frawley — snorted in an unkempt sort of way that would have resulted in upturned noses if they were in the human realm. Nesta got the impression that Frawley wouldn’t care. She struck Nesta as the sort of female whose mannerisms were clipped and to-the-point. She didn’t seem like the sort of person who would give a second thought to lady-like behaviour and would impale anyone who decided that they should put her down.

“Introduce me to your companion, Cassian,” Frawley ordered. “And I’ll pretend not to know that this is Nesta Archeron until you do so.”

Cassian grunted in exasperation but his pupils were no longer dark. He had turned to greet Frawley but he hadn’t let go of Nesta’s hand. Frawley’s ice blue eye darted down to glance at it. Cassian squeezed her fingers before he let go, his hand immediately finding purchase on the small of her back again. Encouragement, she realised, for the social situation he knew she did not want to be in.

This time Nesta didn’t want to bat him away. She felt frayed and raw, his touch the only thing keeping her tethered to the present. 

“Frawley, meet Nesta Archeron. Nesta, Frawley is the witch who oversees the Eastern territory of The Steppes. And,” he said with a deliberate pause for emphasis, “is supposed to keep the beasts in the forest under control.”

Frawley made a disapproving noise in the back of her throat at Cassian’s words but she did not retaliate. She only rested her disconcerting eyes on Nesta. They seemed to work independently of one another and brown found Nesta after blue.

“We can’t leave it solely to males to protect, can we Nesta?” Frawley clipped. “Now, do come in, it’s getting dark and Caerleon gets forlorn when I leave him inside for too long.”

As she spoke, a sound halfway between a whine and a roar came from the cottage door. Frawley looked pointedly at them as if to indicate the sound had proven her point, before she turned sharply on her heel. 

Somehow Nesta made her legs move, even though she wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground. As if he knew how badly she was faring, Cassian kept his hand on her lower back. The sensation alone was enough to keep her upright. She would not add to her burning shame by having to be carried across the threshold. It was bad enough that Cassian had to fly her everywhere as it was.

“That’s quite some power you expelled.” Frawley threw Nesta a discerning look over her shoulder. “I bet you’re feeling drained.”

“Yes,” Nesta said simply, because she couldn’t say anything more.

“Nothing I can’t sort out,” Frawley clipped as she opened the cottage door. It was a wooden stable door, the top half already open. Nesta saw a blur of sandy fur and she tensed instinctively.

A thumb caressed her back, the movement soothing against the sudden terror that gripped her — telling her that it was ok, that the kerits had gone and they were safe.

“Calm down Caer, you stupid Manticore, it’s just Cassian,” Frawley snapped, but a huge moving body of light tan fur jostled the female to the side. Frawley growled in irritation but Nesta barely heard it, she was too busy staring at the beast that had emerged in the doorway. 

It was massive. At first, Nesta thought it was a huge lion with a long shaggy mane made of burnt orange, but as it prowled towards her, she could see large, leathery wings on its back and its tail, which was flicking at the tip, was not made up of a tuft of hair but of long spikes like that of a porcupine. The beast’s large paws thudded on the earth and its eyes were molten gold. It was beautiful and deadly and if Nesta had it in her to be afraid she would have already been running.

She took a step backwards, bumping into Cassian’s hard chest.

“Don’t mind Caerleon,” Frawley called quickly to Nesta. She had obviously seen the blood drain from her face. She pronounced the name kaa-lee-uhn, the mystical name rolling off her tongue effortlessly. “He looks terrifying but he’s essentially a big teddy bear when he’s at home.”

Nesta remained stock still as the animal came to a stop a few feet in front of her. It stared at her, its head low and its tail flicking, as if it were measuring her up.

Then Caerleon’s eyes slid to Cassian. 

The manticore’s body straightened and his tail shot straight up, curling into a question mark, the needles of his tuft relaxed and soft like the spines of a thistle. 

To Nesta’s amazement, the animal trotted over to Cassian with a low whine that sounded like a greeting.

“Hello you beautiful beast,” Cassian said with a low laugh. 

Caerleon knocked his head hard into Cassian’s upper torso, rubbing his face against the leather like a cat branding its owner. Dropping his hand from Nesta, Cassian buried his fingers deep into the animal’s mane and ruffled the fur. Caerleon’s purr rumbled so deep that Nesta felt it in her chest but she was reeling from the loss of contact. 

It was startling and Nesta felt cold. 

She began to slip.

Frawley tutted. “Cassian is the only Fae Caer has ever met who is large enough not be knocked back when he does that. Now, you come with me, Nesta. You look dead on your feet.” 

Nesta allowed herself to be led through the hallway, straight into a wide, open kitchen. Frawley sat Nesta down at a large, worn pine table opposite the huge hearth. As promised, the fire was silent, the flames dancing gently as they licked their way up the chimney as if the quiet had brought them calm. The knowledge that there would be no cracking bones eased the tight set of Nesta’s shoulders, even if she did feel like she was hovering above her body, looking down at herself.

She looked very ill, that much she knew, but she couldn’t speak or will her expression into something better. Even her neck felt heavy, the thought of turning to look for Cassian too much, so she stared at the silent fire until she became entranced.

In the distance, Nesta heard clattering — someone moving about the kitchen — and then a warm mug was pressed into her ice-cold hands.

“Drink this,” a stern voice told her. “It’s not too hot, so drink it right up.”

Nesta did as she was told. It tasted of chamomile and honey and... something she couldn’t put her finger on. She didn’t care to ask. With each sip, Nesta felt her body hum and tingle until her body realigned and she was just Nesta sitting in a stranger’s kitchen.

Frawley must have sensed a change in her because she took Nesta’s mug. With a swish of her charcoal skirts she walked over to a steaming cast iron pot on the stove and ladled some more liquid into it.

“Better?” Frawley asked as she handed it back to Nesta. “Best drink another cup. You expelled an awful lot of power in one go.” 

Nesta frowned, thinking back to how her power had leapt to the clearing between the boulders. 

“I couldn’t stop it,” she told Frawley. “I tried to sever the connection.”

Frawley had busied herself by rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. “That’s my new spell-work. It sucks the power out of anybody who dares to try and break through my perimeter walls. Good to see it’s all working well, although it would have been nice if it had been something other than you — those kerits, for example.”

Frawley placed a plate full of biscuits on the table. 

“For the shock,” Frawley explained. “Spell-work is all well and good, but sometimes you can’t beat a heap of sugar. It usually tastes better, too. These are Lorrian’s favourite — ginger and dark chocolate.”

“Are those for me?” 

Cassian’s voice sounded from behind her. He reached across her to pluck a biscuit from the plate. The air smelt of pine and musk rather than blood and sweat. He had cleaned up; his hair was wet and he had discarded his stained tunic so he was only wearing his leathers. 

Tutting angrily, Frawley swatted at his outstretched hand with a tea towel. “ _You_ also need to drink first rather than stuffing your thick warrior skull with biscuits. Your siphons are drained.” 

Cassian grinned impishly as he took a steaming mug from Frawley, but his eyes quickly snagged back to Nesta. From the sensation squirming in the lining of her stomach, Nesta knew he was still worried about her. 

Frawley’s eyes looked past Nesta then to someone else. “And you,” she pointed, “don’t even think of taking a biscuit from that plate.”

Lorrian had come in behind Cassian. The male seemed larger inside the cottage and Nesta realised she had miscalculated quite how big he was. Nesta watched him move to a kitchen cupboard and pull out a biscuit tin. “Don’t worry, I’ll take one from here.”

Grinning, Lorrian tilted the tin to offer Nesta a replacement. It had taken him a moment to open the lid, choosing to place it on the counter and secure the tin against the crook of his arm and torso, using his only hand to pry off the top. Frawley did not move to assist him, but Nesta noticed that she busied her own hands at the stove; as if that would stop her from jumping in.

Lorrian’s smile was easy as Nesta took another biscuit for herself. His manner gave no indication that he had witnessed her meltdown outside the house — and if he had, that he was fazed by it.

“These are my favourite,” he told Nesta, as she nibbled on the edge of a biscuit. “Frawley pretends that she’s all hard love but she makes them for me every week.”

Frawley scoffed but her lips turned up slightly at the ends as Lorrian kissed her cheek. 

“Don’t ruin your dinner,” she scolded, as her husband reached for the tin again. Her eyes rested on Nesta and Cassian then. “You _will_ be staying for dinner, won’t you?”

Nesta felt Cassian glance at her, his mouth opening to say no even though she knew he’d like to stay. And the thought of leaving now, when she still felt so ropy was a horrible prospect.

“Thank you.” The words were stiff but they came out of her throat without being clawed back — a small triumph.

“Good,” Frawley replied with a swift nod. “You shouldn’t be travelling yet at any rate.” Her expression turned stern as she turned to Cassian, her tone cool. “Perhaps next time, some unnamed idiot will think twice before asking a young Fae to expel her power at my perimeter shell.”

Cassian winced and the only word Nesta could think to describe his expression was tormented. “Perhaps you should grant me access to your perimeter. That way I wouldn’t have had to resort to ask Nesta to attempt to break and enter.”

Frawley’s snort was soft. “Touché,” she conceded, before turning to Nesta. “You should go and scrub that blood off you. The bathroom is up the hall and to the right. Feel free to use the tub. Towels are in the cupboard.”

* * *

It hadn’t taken Nesta long to clean up. Whilst Cassian had been slicing and slashing with steel, Nesta had wreaked destruction at a distance with her palms. Standing over the ceramic basin, Nesta had run cold water over her face and scrubbed until the blood disappeared and her skin was left pink. She even attempted to get the blood out of her hair and then made do with dragging her fingers through the tangled strands until it hung wet around her face.

Nesta had expected to want to stay upstairs and hide away, but her legs carried her downstairs with little hesitation. She followed the low and lilting conversation in Illyrian to find Cassian and Lorrian in what she expected was the living room. Caerleon was sprawled in front of the hearth, basking in the warmth of the silent flames. He raised his head lazily when she entered the room, but soon settled down again, slowly squeezing his eyes shut; as if to him, basking in the heat equalled bliss.

The two males broke off their conversation as she entered and Nesta tried not to shy away from the attention. 

Instead, she rose an imploring eyebrow at Cassian as she purposefully seated herself in one of the twin armchairs by the hearth. Cassian was seated on the couch, sprawled back as if he were totally at home in the cottage. It was a vast contrast to her stiff and upright posture. She longed to lean back into the soft cushions, but her body wouldn’t allow her the luxury.

Even so, it was nice to find a place by the warmth of the fire without fear of breaking down completely. The heat sunk into her cold limbs, the sensation so comforting Nesta longed for a book. 

She used to love reading by the fire.

“We’re talking about the kerits,” Cassian explained. “They don’t usually venture into the forest.”

“Nasty little shits, those beasts,” Lorrian told Nesta with a shake of his head. “They hunt for their food up in the mountains, not amongst the pine trees. They usually stay well away from the Fae. We have never seen them in Frawley’s part of The Steppes before — or any part of The Steppes for that matter. They must have been very hungry to attack and venture so far from their den. To venture into the inbetween.”

Nesta’s gut twisted, but she did not allow her expression to change. She and Cassian had been food to the kerits. What would it have felt like to have their canines rip through to her insides and feast on her organs? 

She tried to banish the thought, so she asked, “Frawley looks after a part of the The Steppes?”

Lorrian nodded. “The Eastern part.”

“There are four witches overseeing the territory of The Steppes—” Cassian started.

Lorrian grimaced. “Frawley calls them sisters, I call them—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Frawley’s sharp voice came from the doorway and they all looked up. 

Obediently, Lorrian went quiet. Cassian smirked at his friend. 

“As I’m sure you will be aware having sisters of your own Nesta,” Frawley said, levelling Nesta with a stern look, “sisters do not always see eye to eye and they are not always alike. My sisters and I have our differences, but we have been looking after this forest for many years in relative harmony.” She looked at Cassian then. “We will address the issue of the kerits, but you know the forest ultimately lords itself. We are only there to intervene when things get out of control or when external forces are brought into the mix.”

“Naturally,” Cassian replied smoothly, crossing his ankles so his long legs sprawled in front of him. “The question is why are they venturing outside of their usual territory in the first place? Forktail, Ironcrest and Swallow’s Ridge have all had kerit attacks in the last month. The little shits are usually clever enough to know they are outnumbered but it doesn’t seem to be deterring them now. They managed to tear their way through a section of the camp before the warriors on patrol spotted them and sent them packing. The damage was… substantial.” 

The careful wording had Nesta’s gaze sharpening. 

“Where?” she demanded. “What part of the camps did they attack?” 

Her voice cracked on the last word. Cassian’s eyes took on a haunted look. 

Her heart twisted in agony. 

“The widows camp?” she asked with quiet fervour.

“Yes,” Cassian relented. Green and brown had softened at the anguish across her features. “The kerits are clever enough to identify the weak. The widow, orphans and bastards are always cast out to the perimeters of the camps. The beasts managed to pick their way into the main vein of the camp before warriors fought them off.”

“We’re tightening our security,” Cassian added, looking to Lorrian and Frawley now. “We have tripled the amount of warriors on patrol in all of the camps — both foot and aerial. So far, so good.”

Frawley’s ice blue eye rested on Nesta, then her brown. “We saw silver fire in Kedra’s territory a few months back. Was that you?”

“I don’t know what part of the forest it was,” Nesta said tersely, remembering her sharp anger and the brutal force with which her power had burst from her... The sound as Cassian was thrown backwards and the way his body had thumped against the pine needles. The way she’d thought she’d made his heart stop and then her relief as he’d sworn and spat blood, his voice a rasp as he called her sweetheart.

“Kedra’s,” Cassian confirmed with a nod. His eyes danced in the firelight as he locked eyes briefly with Nesta, as if they shared a secret. “Did she mention it?”

“She didn’t have to,” Lorrian replied. “We saw it from here.”

Cassian nodded but he only asked, “Is that dinner I smell?”

“Yes,” Frawley responded, tutting at his smooth change of subject. “And it’s ready to eat, so do come into the dining room.”

* * *

Dinner was what Frawley referred to as _gulyas,_ a steak stew seasoned with paprika. Nesta could only describe it as pure comfort in a bowl. It was delicious and the meat tender, but after eating half Nesta found herself unable to eat another bite.

Whilst she was feeling a lot stronger after the drinks Frawley had given her, her stomach had been left tender and raw. She had resorted to slowly tearing up her bread without eating it in a bid to keep her hands busy. Cassian had been tracking the movement across the table since she’d started, and Nesta had to fight the urge to throw the bread at him to get him to stop.

The conversation was unstrained and easy. It was the sort of conversation Nesta imagined you were only rewarded with when it came to long-term friends — or she supposed, when your friends happened to live more than a few centuries. Frawley and Lorrian jested and jabbed at Cassian, and for the first time since they’d arrived in Windhaven, Cassian looked completely at ease. She was relaxed too, she realised. She might not be contributing to the discussions as readily as the others, but she was content listening to them talk and speaking when it was required of her — a stark contrast to how she usually felt: like an unwanted intruder. 

“What’s the situation like in the camps?” Lorrian asked Cassian as his spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl. He leant back in the low-backed dining chair, nursing his full stomach. “Frawley and I were at the market on Sunday and saw Kallon talking to the crowds.”

Cassian made a noise of irritation in the back of his throat. “Preying on the females in particular, no doubt?”

“And the males,” Lorrian corrected. “You won’t believe the shit that cocky bastard is spewing out now.”

Cassian’s expression turned stony. “Tell me,” he ordered.

Lorrian leant forwards so he was resting his forearms on the table. The soft faelight made the grey in his hair shine silver and highlight the lines on his face that immortality had brought slowly over time. “He’s claiming he has found Enalius’s sword. That it presented itself to him.”

To Nesta’s surprise, Cassian barked a laugh, his wings flaring slightly as if to dismiss the statement. His wine glass was halfway to his lips but he set it back down on the table.  “How many poor bastard’s have claimed that over the years only to be disappointed that it’s only an old Illyrian weapon?” 

Cassian leant back in his chair with a smile. It fell when he took stock of his friends grave faces. 

His eyes slid to Frawley. “What do you know?”

“I’ve seen a sword like it before,” Frawley admitted. “Many, many years ago.”

“And?” Cassian pressed, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“I couldn’t get close enough to tell and the blade itself was sheathed in its scabbard, but... it looked very similar,” she admitted.

“It’s not a replica?”

Frawley shook her head. “It’s missing a jewel on the bone pommel but the magic… I recognised it, if not dampened slightly, but perhaps that is what has happened over time.”

A stunned silence. 

Nesta had not stopped watching Cassian’s face. Usually he would have glanced her way by now —he always seemed to know when her focus was on him — but those hazel eyes were too consumed with troubled thoughts to notice. 

Eventually, a long, defeated sigh was let loose. Cassian dragged a hand over his face and then back into his hair. His fingers snagged on the tangles but he combed them through despite it.

“And he claims it presented itself to him?” Cassian asked resignedly. He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “The whelp isn’t even remarkable with a sword. I could cut him down like he were paper being tossed in the wind.”

Lorrian grunted. “Of course he is. Fuck knows where he actually found it.”

“You’re sure?” Cassian asked Frawley again. 

Frawley took a long, deep drag of wine. Her teeth were stained slightly red when she spoke. “It’s not often I have encountered an object with such an intricate insignia. It’s not something one forgets, but the magic was a whisper of what I encountered. I would need to study it up close.”

“You think legend is becoming truth?”

“What’s the legend?”

It was the first time Nesta had spoken in a long time. Even so, not once had Nesta felt as if she were on the periphery. In Velaris she had usually eaten in silence, nobody caring to make eye contact with her, for fear that she would snarl. But here, she was not an observer, something which was made evident when Frawley’s ice blue eye found hers not with trepidation, but as if she were equal. 

As Frawley turned in her seat to face Nesta directly, her light brown eye too found Nesta. 

To Nesta’s surprise, the witch had insisted Nesta sit beside her at dinner. Lorrian was directly opposite and Cassian diagonal. Nesta could not remember anybody deliberately seating themselves beside her at the dinner table because they wanted to be part of her company. Elain was an exception of course. 

Before Illyria, Cassian had usually made a point of sitting as far away from her at the dinner table as possible. Nesta still didn’t know why.

“After Enalius’s death, his sword disappeared," Frawley told Nesta. "Vanished. And not in the way that it became lost over time. As Enalius took his last breath it faded into the air, to become a part of Illyria itself. Legend states that it returned itself to Oya and that it will appear again when it is needed. Since then, nobody has seen it.”

Nesta frowned. “I thought Enalius was a God. Surely a God cannot die?”

“He was,” Lorrian replied. “But for a long time, he and Oya tied themselves to a Fae lifespan to dedicate themselves to reigning peace in Illyria. But when it came for them to pass into the next world, their spirits returned to our Heavens instead, forever to rule over our skies.”

“That is why Illyrian’s believe we can see the binary stars,” Cassian told Nesta. His voice was a low, intimate rumble. “It is a reminder that Oya and Enalius are still with us; that they are _pareho_ and as a consequence, _Albireo_ — beloved.”

Nesta recalled the blue and white stars in the sky. She had seen them on multiple occasions now, whenever she and Cassian went stargazing. Since he had first pointed them out, she found herself looking for them. They were unassuming but breathtaking in a way Nesta could not explain, the oval circle of ethereal mist signifying how they orbited one another; forever in a cyclical dance.

“Hopefully Kallon will die in the Rite,” Frawley said, bringing the conversation back around to the situation at hand. Death rang in her words as she swirled the wine in her glass. “I hear he’s competing this year. He says Ramiel will prove him worthy.”

The rough-hewn features on Cassian’s face hardened. “Let’s hope the fucking kerits hunt him down early.” Then he pinned Frawley with a serious gaze. “That’s how he’s been able to unite the lords sons in different camps. They met recently in a neutral location — at the bottom of Ramiel. Sacred ground. He’ll say the sword marks him as the rightful rule of Illyria.”

“Naturally,” Frawley mused as Lorrian snorted gruffly in disgust. “And what will happen then? The weak will only become weaker.” This time it was she that pinned Cassian with a hard look. “That does not sound like someone who is worthy.”

Cassian huffed in agreement and a muscle feathered in his jaw; a trademark sign that he was irritated.

“I noticed some males there from Windhaven, too,” Lorrian added, as if sensing that Cassian was on a short leash. “Ragar and a few of his friends.”

Nesta sat up at that and looked sharply at Cassian. She knew that name. “The male with the scar on his throat?”

“Yes,” Lorrian said slowly. “He got it from the most recent war, I believe. He’s one of the most arrogant assholes I’ve ever met. I had the misfortune of training him in aerial combat a few years ago. How do you know him?”

This time it was Nesta’s turn to snort as she recalled the events. Her power sparked too and Frawley’s eyes gleamed as if she had sensed Nesta’s magic turning in her veins.

“Nesta fought off Ragar and his cronies from harassing the widows and orphans the other day,” Cassian explained, when Nesta was not immediately forthcoming.

“By yourself?” Lorrian asked Nesta incredulously. A faint flicker of pride flared inside of Nesta as Lorrian cut a sharp look at Cassian. “And where were you?” he demanded.

That muscle continued to tick in Cassian’s jaw, but Nesta didn’t give him the opportunity to speak. “I don’t need a male escort,” she snapped.

To her surprise, Lorrian and Frawley laughed. It was not a condescending; Frawley’s cackle in particular held nothing but delight.

“That Cauldron should have made you Illyrian, Nesta Archeron. What do they make of you at that camp?” Frawley asked as she poured Nesta more sparkling elderflower cordial.

Both she and Lorrian were not drinking wine. Nesta had declined when Lorrian had tilted the bottle at her glass and he had only nodded at her, replacing it with the cordial. He wasn’t drinking either, he told her. He had become too dependent on it after the war.

Snorting softly, Nesta pushed her thumb into a piece of bread. It was soft and doughy — comforting. “They call me a witch.”

“I meant no offence, I’m just surprised this one wasn’t with you,” Lorrian assured Nesta as he jerked his head at Cassian. “Cassian has always had a knack for finding trouble.”

Cassian’s grin was so feral his canines flashed in the low faelight. Nesta refrained from rolling her eyes.

“Nothing wrong with being a witch,” Frawley told Nesta, studying her seriously over the rim of her wine glass. “But I’ve never seen anything like that silver fire of yours come from a witch before, and I’ve lived a long time.”

“And how long would that be exactly?” Cassian asked with too much innocence.

Frawley hissed at him menacingly but to Nesta’s surprise, Cassian laughed. It made the worry fade from his features, softening his expression.

Turning back to Nesta, Frawley asked, “What fuels your power? I’ve never known anybody to harbour that much raw energy. I can store power beyond my natural reserves but not to that degree. Neither can my sisters.”

“I don’t know,” Nesta said shortly. Immediately her guard was up at the question — an impenetrable fortress of ice and silver. And usually she would have refused to answer further, but the bluntness with which Frawley spoke appealed to Nesta. It was how she spoke too. She was not one to creep and tiptoe. “It works when I’m angry,” she confessed.

Frawley put down her wine glass and leant forward. The two males had turned silent. Even the soft music of the lyre that Frawley had magicked to play in the background had turned so quiet it were as if it were trying to listen in. Caer, who had been sitting on his haunches beside Frawley, also became unnaturally still, his molten gold eyes transfixed on Nesta. 

Cassian remained sat back in his chair. There was no indication that he was going to jump in or speak out of turn.

“Witches draw their power from nature not their emotions,” Frawley said. “What happens when you feel joy?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Nesta clipped. 

It was the truth and she had no desire to sugar coat it. Nesta couldn’t even identify when she last felt joy or happiness. What sort of life had she lived that Nesta couldn’t even remember the sensation of her own joy bubbling in her throat, as if it was trying to burst forth — the taste blissful on her tongue? And now she had an eternity of feeling like this; either dead inside or so inconsolably full of rage that she wanted to explode from it.

Silence gave way to rustling movement as Caer got to his feet. The beast padded over to where Nesta sat with the slow, leisurely movement of a cat that knew its place at the top of the chain. She did not flinch as she felt his warm breath on her skin or as Nesta clocked the unusually long, sharp incisors that poked beyond his spotted muzzle. As Caer came to stand in front of her, he looked up at her with sad amber eyes and pushed his large head into her lap. 

The gesture was gentle and so unlike the awful kerits that a lodge stuck itself in Nesta’s throat. She tried to swallow it down before it became too much. Desperate to busy her hands, she ran a hand over the beast’s head. His fur was unbelievably soft; deliciously silky and sleek, and unable to help herself, Nesta buried her fingers into the animal’s mane. 

Caer rumbled deep in his throat; a long, drawn out purr that sung bliss. 

The sound made the lodge in her throat disappear. It allowed her to speak again. “My power only works when I’m angry. We don’t know why.”

Lorrian grunted. “I bet Cassian makes that easy for you. Most irritating bastard I ever encountered.”

“Yes,” Nesta admitted slowly. To her amazement, she found her lips tilting slightly upwards. 

Frawley cackled. “Putting up with an Illyrian full-time has its challenges.”

“Yet you gave me your heart,” Lorrian replied, dropping a kiss to his wife’s head as he collected the dishes. It took him a while with only one working hand, but neither Cassian or Frawley jumped up to help him, as if between them there was an unspoken agreement to let Lorrian handle things himself.

“So when are you going to have the nerve to ask my husband to take up the position of aerial colonel?” Frawley asked Cassian, once Lorrian had disappeared into the kitchen and the dishes had started to clink in the sink.

Cassian took a bite of leftover bread and chewed it. His eyes glinted caramel. “I was going to ask him when we are alone, but I suppose you were always going to be a nosy witch and interfere.” 

Nesta studied Frawley. _A witch._ It was an accusation that had been thrown Nesta’s way countless times since she had been in Illyria. In the recess of her mind, Nesta had thought Cassian had initially brought them here to determine what she was. And perhaps he had… but to know he had another agenda smoothed over the knowledge somewhat. 

Deep down, Nesta had known that she was not a witch but _other_ : ancient yet new; fire yet ice. An oxymoron that couldn’t be defined. For the first time Nesta found that she didn’t care. As she had sat at dinner, she had welcomed the hum of silver that had started to move again beneath her skin as her magic replenished. Her fire had saved them. If she hadn’t needed to fire her magic between the boulders, she could have taken out the rest of the beasts. She was confident of that. 

As if her power knew she was thinking of it, it surged through her veins. Nesta relaxed into the sensation, willing it to calm as she settled back into her chair and tuned back into the conversation.

Frawley hadn’t responded to Cassian’s playful jab; she merely raised a thick, dark eyebrow that was at odds with her startling white hair.

“Do you think he’ll do it?” Cassian prompted when he realised Frawley wasn’t going to snipe at him. “All of the camps are in dire need of direction with their aerial fleets — Forktail especially — and I can’t be there all the time. Who better to lead and train recruits than Lorrian? He’s the best aerial leader Illyria ever had.”

Frawley took a long, slow drag of wine. It was the colour of blood and Nesta thought of Amren as Frawley emptied the glass. There were similarities between the two: ancient and unpredictable; unnerving yet compelling. Nesta supposed she came under that category, too. 

Maybe that was why she and Amren had always got on, before everything.

“No, I don’t think Lorrian will do it,” Frawley replied, setting her glass down on the table. 

Cassian’s head tilted to the side. “Because of his arm?” 

“Of course, _because of his arm_. You know how they have shunned him.”

Cassian snorted. “I’ve been shunned by my race every day of my life. He should show those bastards how wrong they are. Most of them died in the battle, anyway. He’s got fresh soldiers to work with.”

Frawley hummed. “You also forget that Lorrian and I are _chroí_. They don’t like me.”

“Well, who can blame them,” Cassian said flatly, but there was a twinkle in his eye that told Nesta and Frawley that he was teasing. “Oh come on, it means that they will be wary enough to do as he says. He has your protection, after all. I need someone in the camps that I trust completely. Discontent has risen after the Cauldron obliterated the majority of the forces. I need a strong leader to realign the aerial troops who aren’t going to fall for Kallon’s poison. He’s already got his talons deep in the minds of those families who have lost loved ones.”

Frawley ran a slim finger around the rim of the wine glass. “It also makes Lorrian a target. Illyrian’s have always hated that my sisters and I rule The Steppes. If Lorrian dies, I die. It’s a weakness and a strength to be _chroí_ , Cassian.”

Despite the gravity of Frawley’s words Cassian had perked up. He tilted his head to the side. “Yet you think he should do it.”

Frawley waved casually with the hand that wasn't circling the glass rim. Her nails were trimmed practically short rather than long. “Of course I think he should do it. He’s happiest when he’s in the skies. He needs to face his trauma rather than run away from it, especially with a civil war looming.” 

She grinned then, her smile feral. “Plus, it will get him out of my hair.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian needed to step away, but his body wouldn’t let him. Instead, he remained as still as possible, battling the instincts that were urging him to close the distance and find out what her mouth tasted like when they weren’t about to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! Thank you again for the overwhelming amount of comments from last week. I love hearing from you all :)
> 
> Lots of dialogue this chapter between Nesta & Cassian... in fact, it's basically just dialogue goodness with a fair bit of pining.
> 
> Let me know what you think. And... it's my birthday tomorrow. So give me some comments to wake up to? 
> 
> p.s Please forgive typos and grammatical errors. I was so tired today I couldn't edit very well. I will go over it again tomorrow and tweak if I get the time!
> 
> p.p.s I’m duskandstarlight on Tumblr.

**Chapter Twenty**  
**Cassian**

Cassian flew them back to Windhaven under a blanket of cloud that obscured the stars. He had expected Nesta to have faded away with each flap of his wings, but whenever he glanced a look down at her, she was still awake. She appeared deep in thought, that crease worrying her brow as she gazed out into the deep, smoky black.

Lorrian had agreed to the position of Colonel, surprising both he and Frawley. Cassian suspected Lorrian may have overheard them whilst he was cleaning up in the kitchen, but he couldn’t be sure. Either way, Lorrian would start next week. It was a weight off Cassian’s shoulders to know that the aerial fleets amongst the camps would not only be in excellent hands, but that he had another presence in Illyria that he could trust to keep an eye on the discontent and stamp it out where he could.

And then there was the latest information about the sword. He would have to send word when he got back to the bungalow. Would need to have Rhys hold council first thing tomorrow and get Az to fade into shadow in order to speak to his network of spies and get them to confirm what Lorrian had Frawley had said about the sword.

If it was real… if the sword had presented itself to Kallon and he found a way to prove that it was truly Enalius’s… Well, they were in deep shit. 

Frawley had pressed more tea on Nesta before they left, as if she had sensed a sudden dip in Nesta’s energy levels. The witch had even provided a supply in stoppered jars for Nesta to take home. 

“In case you need them before I see you next,” Frawley had told her sternly, as she pressed them into Nesta’s slim hands. “Drink another before you go to bed. Next time, I’ll up the concentration. Your power is by no means average. Come and see me soon. I’d like to witness that power of yours close up.”

Frawley had given Cassian a pointed look then, as if to tell him that she would castrate him if her orders weren’t followed. He had suppressed a shudder. Frawley could be terrifying when she wanted to be, and he had no intention of giving her an excuse to unleash hell on him. She may be a healing witch, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t stray to the dark side if she so wished.

“I should have trained with you.”

Nesta’s voice startled Cassian out of his thoughts. Despite their movement through the sky, he heard her easily thanks to the shield he had thrown around them. Usually, Cassian liked to feel the wind on his face when he flew, but the magic tonight was necessary; the night was bitter cold and Nesta, who was not expelling any energy sitting in his arms, would freeze until her lips turned blue and her body shook if he went without it. 

Cassian darted a glance down at the female in his arms to try and read her expression, but she was staring resolutely at the dark backdrop. 

“You are training with me,” he replied — confused. Nesta was not normally so cryptic.

Finally that blank mask changed, turning steely and unforgiving, even as she remained preternaturally motionless in his arms. She didn’t so much as blink, as she said, “I don’t mean now. I mean before. I should have trained with you when you asked.”

There was no need to elaborate further. Cassian knew what she was insinuating without stating the specifics and his blood pounded through his veins in anticipation. It was the closest Nesta had ever come to bringing up the war and he knew that one wrong word would shut the conversation down. He needed to tread carefully.

A myriad of responses flashed through his mind at lightning speed, but eventually Cassian just settled on the truth. “Maybe,” he conceded.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Nesta crane her neck to look up at him. His tone had been contemplative rather than critical, and she was sharp enough to have noticed it. 

Glancing down again, Cassian was met with depthless pools of blue flecked with mercury. He tried not to think about how close they were: how holding her whilst they flew had become second nature to him; how her body moulded into his arms as if they were one. Even her fingers, which had once clutched at him for dear life when he had first taken her into the air, were resting lightly against his leathers. They had flown before of course, but something had shifted between them since those kerits had started to surround them — a sense of repeated history that had him almost frantic to touch her. To reassure him that she was alive and well. That her heart was beating in her chest and her skin warm.

Even then, Cassian could not shake the feeling that someone had wound back time and flung them onto that dusty, painful road to death. All he could hear were the words clanging over in his mind, the slice of his soul he had offered and thought had been accepted: “ _I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you in the next world — the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.”_

It was another failed vow from him — or was it an unwanted promise on her side? Sometimes Cassian thought they were living in that time now but on the other side of a cracked mirror; a different reflection of what he had envisaged. Yet rather than feeling defeated, Cassian found himself relieved. To be close enough to Nesta to watch her heal — to be privy to the small smiles and the sharp rebuffs — was a blessing. And the way she had allowed him to cup her cheek earlier… Her skin had been so soft and unblemished through the tears and blood, and when she had communicated with him without hesitation, her finger pushing into his palm, Cassian realised how far they had come. 

Nesta had been so openly vulnerable that Cassian had wanted to pull her to him and wrap his arms around her too-thin body. He had wanted to apologise and apologise for putting her in danger again; for launching her into a situation where she was terrified to enter a house. Instead he had just watched her all evening, marvelling at her inner strength which allowed her to sit and converse with his friends, when she'd battled not only physical monsters but personal ones as well.

Cassian wondered if all her life, Nesta had only needed to heal. It was a time that had been stolen from her repeatedly, as she was thrown from the death of her mother into poverty… into a new body… into war… into the loss of her father. And now that inability to mourn had caught up with her in one sweeping rush of emotion. 

No wonder Nesta had been so lost she had barely been able to find her way back. 

So Cassian cast his feelings aside — he cast _them_ aside, if there even was a them — and said, “I don’t think you were ready to train. It wouldn’t have been right to force it on you. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.”

Nesta shook her head. She looked disgusted. He didn’t know if it was at herself or remembering how much he used to pester her. “You were the only one to bother.”

“It’s my job,” he lied smoothly.

His lie did not convince Nesta. “You didn’t offer to train Elain.”

It was true, Cassian hadn’t offered to train the middle Archeron sister. Elain would have balked at having to learn how to punch or the correct way to hold a sword. And in truth, he had always been too focussed on Nesta. From the moment she had so brutally dismissed him in the human realm, he had been hooked. It had been her ability to read him with one, sweeping look and identify what would hurt him the most that had done it — to have been dismissed and deemed unworthy. His brother’s had known it too. Even now, he could remember the way his nostrils had flared as he watched a doe transform into a mountain cat. It had _thrilled_ him at the same time as he had wanted to rip the damn room apart, until it was left in nothing but tatters. 

“I recognised a fire in you that I thought would translate well to the sparring ring,” Cassian told Nesta honestly. Below them, the feathered outline of pines gave way to uneven terrain and crystalline rock as they cleared The Steppes. “I didn’t think Elain would have been as amenable. It turns out you weren’t amenable either.”

Amenable was a nice word for what Nesta had been. Rude, brutal, cruel… Yet he had continued to come back time and time again, until eventually, she had defended him. What had she said to Beron? _That bastard may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern’s forces and your people._

Nesta’s lips upturned at the corners. It wasn’t a true smile, but grim. “That’s why everyone prefers Elain — she’s sweet about it.”

Cassian made a noise in the back of his throat. He deliberately didn’t meet her eye, focussing only on their path home, as he confessed, “I’ve always preferred a cutting tongue, sweetheart.”

Nesta snorted. The sound was soft rather than abrupt. “Such pretty words, General. I would have thought you might have changed your tune, as of late.”

Cassian’s laughter was rich. “What is breakfast without a bit of verbal swordplay?”

Her lips did tug upwards then and satisfaction bloomed within him. He wondered if she knew how serious he was being; that if he had a choice, he would choose Nesta again and again and again. That living with her was like a dream, even if it was warped and covered in thorns.

Nesta’s faint smile did not last long. He watched it fade with a sense of mourning. What he’d give to make her _laugh_ …

“I should have trained with you anyway. It would have changed everything.”

If Cassian weren’t keeping them aloft, he would have stilled. He didn’t like the way her tone lacked the life it had moments earlier. It was always an indication that things were about to go southward.

“In what sense?” he asked

Nesta shrugged. The gesture was casual, but it was a stark contrast to the weight of her next words. “Maybe people wouldn’t have died.”

The careful use of the word “people” rather than “Fae” told him that Nesta was referring to her father. Nesta may have rejected her new body, but she had picked up the language and terminology quicker than Feyre. It had always impressed him how sharp her mind was; how she analysed and dissected rather than jumping the cannon with her words.

“I lead the armies and I couldn’t move quick enough to save your father. Training wouldn’t have made a difference,” he told her carefully. 

It was the truth. Nothing would have changed the King of Hybern’s decision to snap her father’s neck, and there was no solace to be found in wondering _what if_ , not when they hadn’t the capacity to turn back the clock. Cassian didn’t say that, though. It was an unhelpful observation for someone mourning, especially for Nesta who held everything inside, tormenting herself for her past actions, even whilst on the outside, she remained cool and expressionless. 

They had been staring at one another for a moment too long, but Cassian didn’t want to break away. He was waiting for her to shut down on him, and dread lined his stomach as he waited for those eyes to shutter… for her to kick him out.

“What does _chroi_ mean?”

The question was so unexpected that Cassian found himself biting back a surprised smile. Recently, Nesta hadn’t been afraid to grill him for answers. He loved it as surely as he loved being in the skies; knowing that she felt comfortable enough with him to ask to be informed in things she didn’t yet understand.

“It means heart,” he replied. He tore his gaze away from her to focus on the path ahead of them. Flying with Nesta was a distraction. It meant that he wasn’t half as alert as he should be.

“Is that Illyrian?”

Cassian banked to the right. If he continued straight, they’d soon be back in Windhaven. It wouldn’t be long until the shadow of the mountain pass would take shape before them. 

“No, the word comes from the ancient language of the witches.”

“And Lorrian and Frawley are _chroi_?” When Cassian nodded, Nesta wrinkled her nose. “Is that just another word for mate?”

“No, _chroi_ is different,” Cassian assured her, as he desperately wrestled the wild beat of his heart into submission. “Once in their lifetime, a witch can offer their heart. They can offer it to anybody, but should a witch choose another male it gives them the chance of continuing the witches bloodline.The spell was said to have been cast when the witches first came into origin, although nobody but the witches are old enough to know when that was.”

“And if a witch was to choose another female? Or to not give away their heart?” 

“Then no witchlings,” Cassian said simply. “Even if a witch and a male do become _chroi_ , it doesn’t guarantee offspring. Frawley and Lorrian have lost three witchlings before they reached full term.”

Chancing a look down at her, Cassian found Nesta staring at the shadowy scenery with a fierce intensity that told him that her emotions were raging beneath the surface. He could see the cogs turning in her mind as she catalogued the information and lined up questions. 

“So Frawley and Lorrian weren’t bonded together by something?”

She was referring to the Cauldron of course. 

Cassian understood why she’d rather not say it out loud. 

“If you’re asking whether there was a preexisting bond between them, then no; Frawley chose to offer her heart to Lorrian. _Chroi_ can only occur when true love is felt on both sides. Obviously, he accepted. They’ve been _chroi_ for a century now.”

A pause fell between them as Nesta digested his words. He watched those arrows wrinkle at the base of her nose. “So it’s like being married?”

Immediately, Cassian shook his head. “No, it’s more than that. _Chroi_ merges two hearts. If Lorrian’s heart were to stop beating, then so would Frawley’s, and vice versa. Being _chroi_ is very rare and isn’t a choice made lightly.”

“Rarer than mates?”

Nesta craned her neck to stare up at him, but this time it was he that would not meet her gaze. 

“Yes, it’s much rarer,” he said eventually, screwing up his eyes for want of something to do — to pretend he was craning to look for the first sign of Windhaven, even though they both knew his Fae eyesight was exceptional. “Lorrian was the son of the war lord at Forktail when he met Frawley. They first crossed paths during the war and later, he gave up his life to be with her. As you have probably gathered from Devlon, Illyrian’s are wary of witches and that is a sentiment that has been extended to Lorrian by association. His father disowned him because of it. Lorrian remained within Illyrian society despite that, but after he lost his arm… He carries a lot of unnecessary shame. Illyrian’s don’t look kindly on a warrior who is deemed broken, especially when it’s connected to a fighting arm.” 

Cassian trailed off, thinking of the demons that haunted his friend: how the shadows of trauma had thrown Lorrian into shadow for a long time; how he was only just emerging into the light. “Arm or no arm, Lorrian is still the best airborne warrior I have ever seen. He assisted me with strategy in the war against Hybern, but he wouldn’t go up in the air.”

A beat of silence stretched out into a longer one. Around his shield, the wind howled a fierce tune, and Cassian had to muster all his strength into keeping them on a straight path. 

Even without looking at her, Cassian could tell Nesta was deep in thought.

“I can hear your mind working,” Cassian dared to tease. “What are you thinking?”

It was not a question Cassian could have asked two weeks ago without being decimated on the spot. It thrilled him when she only asked, “Did you take me there to find out if I was a witch?”

It was direct and utterly Nesta to get straight to the point. He had learnt to expect no less, not that it had ever bothered him. It was refreshing to meet someone who did not stand to formality or pleasantries. For all of Nesta’s masks, she had never been afraid to storm through the fire rather then step cautiously around it, utterly unfazed that she may be set alight in the process.

“I wanted to take you to see _Kamanam_ ,” Cassian replied honestly. “I did intend to stop by whilst we were there. I wanted to ask Lorrian to oversee the aerial units in the camps. And…” he admitted with trepidation. “I wanted to see if Frawley had any insights into your power.”

Nesta’s snort was soft. She didn’t seem annoyed like she had every right to be. Cauldron, she should be fuming at him after today. He had put them in so much danger. “I don’t think anybody can truly understand my power but me.”

Her words were laced with a sort of frankness that Cassian hadn’t heard from her before, as if something had shifted since this morning; a movement from cautious disdain to acceptance. “I need to learn how to control it.”

“Yes,” Cassian agreed.. Excitement mixed with disbelief battered against the flames that shielded his emotions. “I only know two people who have power as complex as you.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose you mean Amren and your High Lord.”

“Yes,” Cassian admitted. “Amren taught Rhys a lot about his magic.”

The mountain pass slowly came into view. Specks of light took the shape of camp fires as they approached and woodsmoke weaved its way up into the sky, carrying on the wind. 

“She doesn’t like me any longer,” Nesta said, her voice unusually low — quiet.

Cassian barked a laugh as he started their ascent. “Amren doesn’t like anybody.” 

A pregnant silence fell between them. It stretched out until it was thin and threatening to break with curiosity. 

Eventually, Cassian said, “I don’t know what happened between you two, but Amren can always be bribed with jewellery.”

Cassian had hoped for a snort or a stifled grunt, but Nesta didn’t respond. Her expression was tight and conflicted. He had always wondered what had been said between the two for Amren to finally snap. Despite that, Cassian had never seen Amren take to anybody else like she had to Nesta. Sometimes he’d thought it was Nesta’s ancient power that called to Amren, like a siren calling out at sea. Yet after seeing the two of them together, Cassian had realised it was much more than that. Nesta thrilled Amren as she thrilled Cassian. Nesta was untameable fire and steel with a personality to match and she was magnificent with it. 

“You two may have fallen out,” Cassian told Nesta, when it was clear she wasn’t going to divulge any information, “but I’ll tell you this; Amren likes you for exactly who you are.”

Nesta stared at him as he set her down on the ground. Her eyes glinted despite the lack of light — the moon was hidden by misty cloud, the night sky unusually dark. Even the camp fires didn’t reach the path to the bungalow, as if the midnight black had swallowed the flames. 

“Amren likes a strong character,” he explained. “She doesn’t care for pretty words and sweet smiles. Out of the entire Inner Circle and your sisters, Amren took to you more quickly than the rest of us.” A wry smile crept onto his face then. He hadn’t seen much of Rhys’ Second lately, and he found he craved to hear the insults that he knew were never truly designed to sting. 

“I had hoped she’d stop calling me dog at some point,” Cassian mused with a tilt of his head, “but after a few hundred years I’ve given up hope.”

He smiled but Nesta did not smile back.

Letting the subject drop, Cassian took the box of vials from Nesta as he opened the front door. 

“I’ll heat up that drink for you,” he told her.

“I can do it,” Nesta replied with a shake of her head. “You should bathe.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you saying I smell?”

Screwing up her nose, Nesta dragged those steely eyes over his body. The movement made his skin burn. “I’m saying that your leathers and wings are still covered in blood,” she retorted.

Cassian didn’t bother to fight her on it. After he had stood under the water and scrubbed himself clean — his wings always took longer than he’d like — he headed out into the living room with a towel slung low on his hips and another attacking his hair in an attempt to dry it.

To his surprise, Nesta was curled up in her corner on the couch, _Heroicis_ open on her lap and a steaming mug in her hands. The sight of her reading the book again made his heart twist with both pain and pleasure. Although Nesta was partial to dog-earing pages, the way she turned the delicate paper of _Heroicis_ was done with such careful reverence he wanted to press a kiss to her temple.

Instead he commented lightly, “You’ve barely been in the house more than fifteen minutes and you’re already reading.”

Slowly, Nesta dragged her eyes up at him. If she were bothered by the fact he was only wearing a towel, she didn’t let it show. He found himself disappointed. He had been hoping for a hiss or a scathing comment that left him burnt and utterly thrilled. 

Or even better, a lingering look or a sweeping gaze that gave some indication as to whether she saw him any light other than someone she had been forced to live with. An indication that once they could have been something.

“I thought I’d read _Heroicis_ again,” Nesta replied, seemingly oblivious to his train of thought. “I don’t remember mention of the sword.”

“It’s only referenced in a few lines,” Cassian responded. “It was blessed by Oya at the summit on Mount Ramiel and gifted to Enalius.” 

Striding over over to where Nesta was sitting in her usual spot on the couch, he gently removed the book from her hands and flipped to the page he had stared at over and over as a young boy. Cassian hadn’t been able to read _Heroicis_ until Rhys’s mother had taught him to read, so as an illiterate bastard he had always been drawn to the easily understood illustration in the top hand corner: an intricate drawing of an arced blade, carved elaborately with the Illyrian marks inked in black on his torso and arms. At the bottom of the curved pommel, on the wide guard was an oval jewel, which glistened magnificently off the page.

“That would be the stone that Frawley mentioned was missing,” Cassian said, nodding to the jewel. “Assuming that this is an accurate drawing.”

“Do you think Kallon has used the sword as leverage to get the lords sons to meet?”

Cassian grunted in irritation. “I can’t think of anything else that would make rivals put aside their differences. Enalius is revered above anything else in Illyria.”

“More than Oya?” Nesta asked. 

Cassian’s smile was wry. “You shouldn’t be surprised that Illyrian males choose to favour Enalius. He is our warrior God and we are born with warrior hearts. All Illyrian males strive to match Enalius’s power on the battlefield.”

Nesta looked like she wanted to interject with some passionate words about Illyrian bats and their male egos, but she surprised him when she only asked, “Why did Oya bless Enalius with the sword?”

“To destroy Vanth,” Cassian replied. “A pareho bond is sealed through mirrored sacrifice. The sword is symbolic of their pareho bond — the bond that amplified their powers and enabled them to destroy Vanth.”

Nesta scowled. “So the female provided the male with the means of destroying evil, but the male is remembered and the female cast aside? The way I see it, without Oya Enalius would never have struck the killing blow and Vanth would have gone on to wipe out the Illyrian race.”

“What Illyrian’s forget,” Cassian said, nodding in wholehearted agreement, “is that the sword is symbolic of both Oya and Enalius’s power.” 

He tapped the lines he had read too many times to count to illustrate his point. Rather than reading the poetry in her head, Nesta chose to recite aloud, her voice a gorgeous, lilting rhythm:

_And then did Oya cast an inward eye,  
_ _To the beating cage and the entangled self:  
_ _Twin strands of the finest thread,  
_ _Gilded bridges of souls and strength._

 _And from her chest she drew a blade,  
_ _Bloodied steel and amplified rage.  
_ _Bone of a prison,  
_ _The scarlet of sacrifice,  
_ _A sword to banish immoral greed._

 _A merciless weapon for a warrior God,  
_ _To slay the demon sheathed in flesh,_  
_Until all was left was the ash of innards and ichor,  
_ _Rendered by Enalius into the ancient stone._

When Nesta finished, she twisted to look back up at him with concern. The movement had her brown hair glimmering golden in the gentle faelight. 

Too late, he realised his jaw has gone slack. 

“Oya died?”

Cassian shook his head. “No, Oya is immortal — the goddess of rebirth. If _Heroicis_ is to be believed, the pommel of Enalius’s sword was made out of one of the bones from Oya’s rib cage. That’s why it’s curved.” Cassian drew a line with his finger back to the illustration at the top of the page to highlight the pommel with his finger. “By sacrificing a part of herself, Oya made her most precious organ vulnerable — her heart. After all, it is a heart one needs to decide who deserves life and who deserves death.”

Silence hung over them for a moment as Nesta digested his words. 

“You know this book well,” Nesta observed finally. There was a careful edge of suspicion to her voice, as if she was not convinced that an overgrown warrior blessed with the power of killing would have read epic poetry as many times as he clearly had. 

Cassian raised an imploring eyebrow, even though he suspected what Nesta might say next.

“I don’t understand it, but there’s writing on the inside cover.”

Carefully, Nesta turned to the inside cover and the elegant Illyrian script that was all too familiar. 

A long, pregnant pause as Cassian’s heart kicked. He knew Nesta had heard it from the way she stared up at him, those all-seeing eyes tunnelling straight into the depths of who he was.

“Yes, it was given to me,” was all Cassian was able to supply when he found his voice again. He watched Nesta run the pads of her fingertips over the inked curves. The touch was respectful, as if she knew they held weight.

When she looked up at him again, her irises were an alluring smoky grey. “What does it say?”

The only reason he deigned to answer her, Cassian convinced himself, was because she was conversing with him with an ease that he had spent months earning. 

He spoke the words first in Illyrian, before he translated them into the common tongue, “ _Warrior heart, never forget that you are loved_. _”_

Cassian had never told anyone about the book before — had never allowed anyone to read it. His brothers knew of its existence, but they did not pry into his past, just as he did not press for more information about Azriel’s upbringing, or encourage Rhys to speak about his mother and sister. 

But Nesta… he had found her reading _Heroicis_ one day on the couch and the look of rapture on her face as she read had twisted something deep inside of him. It had been the first time she had looked captivated by something — the first time she had ventured out onto the couch of her own volition and stayed for an indeterminate period of time, even as the flames licked in the log burner. Witnessing that numbness finally give way to expression had been so beautiful Cassian had not even contemplated snarling or snatching the book out of her hands like he would have done for anybody else. He had only sat with her on the couch that evening, studying her surreptitiously her over his papers as she reverently turned page after page. 

“My mother gave it to me before I was taken to Windhaven,” Cassian admitted eventually, surprised by his own confession. “It’s the only possession of hers that I have.”

Those mesmerising eyes widened and lips parted in shock before Nesta stilled, as if his words had made everything in her stop for the briefest of moments.Then Nesta’s cheeks dusted with pink and her voice filled with beautiful fervour, “Why did you let me read it. I didn’t—”

But Cassian only shook his head to stop her from continuing and placed a hand on hers to stop her closing the pages shut. “Books are to be read. Besides, once I had seen you weren’t going to dog-ear the pages I became a little more relaxed.”

Cassian hadn’t known it possible for Nesta to grow redder. “I made you tea,” she said, her voice strained.

Cassian didn’t conceal his surprise at the second steaming mug he had failed to notice on the coffee table. “Thank you.”

Nesta nodded to show she’d heard him but went back to reading, or pretending to anyway. Her mortification clearly took a while to ebb, because her eyes remained steadfast on the page in front of her for far longer than it usually took her to flip to the next page. Leaving her to it, Cassian disappeared to his bedroom to get changed and then stopped by the kitchen. 

When he slumped onto the couch opposite Nesta, he slid an open bar of chocolate towards her in offering.

He hid a satisfied smile as she reached over and broke off a few squares. Like him, Nesta’s weak spot was chocolate and it delighted him that something so obvious brought her such pleasure.

Cassian sipped his tea in silence — green tea with a twist of lemon, just how he liked it — and tried and failed not to dissect the little gestures that Nesta had been offering him recently. Because despite all of Nesta’s hard work feigning that she paid others little attention, Cassian’s suspicion that she saw everything was coming to light. 

This mug of tea was one of those moments. Another had been at breakfast the other day: Cassian, who had suffered from nightmares so intense he’d barely had a few hours sleep, had been thrown when Nesta had placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. There had been no eye contact, no words exchanged, just hot caffeine before she turned back to the kitchen counter where she was heating up some chai. 

Since that first mug of green tea after Cassian had built her bookshelves, these little gestures were coming more and more frequently. Was this how Nesta showed she cared? Whilst words were weapons to Nesta they also terrified her, so it would make sense that actions were her way of breaking through. Cassian wondered if her sisters knew that. Elain must, but did Feyre?

If this tea was a symbolic gesture, then Cassian surely owed Nesta an apology for today’s events.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, after he’d drained the dregs of his tea.

Nesta lowered _Heroicis_ and tightened a thick woollen blanket around her, tucking her feet up off the floor. She had not started the log burner. Cassian suspected her battle trauma was still too raw. “What for?”

“The kerits. I shouldn’t have taken you into the forest.”

To his amazement, Nesta shrugged. “You didn’t know they were going to be there.”

“I should have considered the possibility. I thought we’d be safe from them in the forest. They have been attacking some of the camps lately, but I never thought they’d dare venture into The Steppes.”

It was true. There were far worse things that hid in the shadows of the pine trees that would easily make the kerits nothing but carrion. That was why it was so unusual for the beasts to venture into the forest. It didn’t make sense for them to move from the mountains to the forest when The Steppes made them prey rather than predator.

As if she knew this wasn’t a conversation he was willingly going to drop, Nesta marked her place with a satin ribbon and closed _Heroicis_ shut. Even after living together for months, the movement was more measured than relaxed. “It’s fine.”

“It’s fine?” Cassian remarked. “You nearly collapsed from exhaustion.”

Again, Nesta discarded his comment with a dismissive shrug. “The drink helped.”

“ _Nesta_.”

“ _Cassian_. This is what you’ve been training me for isn’t it? So I can protect myself? I don’t need someone to save me, I need to be able to save myself.”

The use of his name threw him off guard. Had she ever used his name before in general conversation when it was just the two of them? The way it fell from her lips made his heart catapult and he knew she’d felt it, even though she didn’t so much as blink. 

“Well, yes—” he started

“Well, then,” Nesta clipped, cutting him off with an abruptness that told him she wasn’t going to be allowing them to discuss the matter further. “Maybe next time you’ll give me a weapon, too.”

The taunt was _almost_ playful, so Cassian let the subject drop with a snort. “I’ll have you ready to gut some kerit with a longsword by the time we next visit Lorrian and Frawley, sweetheart.”

Nesta nodded tightly at his promise, but she suddenly looked as if she were far away. “I need to work on learning to control my power.” She flicked her eyes up to Cassian and her voice was quiet as she admitted, “I don’t know how.”

She looked so lost that Cassian wanted to reach over and run a soothing palm over the back of her head. “We’ll figure it out. We can train tomorrow. We’ll go back to Spearhead so you can let loose.”

No spitting retort or cutting dismissal, only another nod that Cassian translated as thankful. It was not a gesture he usually saw from Nesta — another sign that something had changed. That their orbit had shifted, pulling them in that little bit closer. 

It was going to take all of his restraint to resist the strain.

And then there was the damn letter from Feyre that hung in the periphery of his mind, like a ghost haunting his every move. He did not want to be the intermediary between Nesta and Feyre, but Cassian could not hide that he was. 

He needed to remedy that.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

The rise of a questioning eyebrow was all he received in answer as Nesta sipped from her mug. It was a seemingly casual gesture but Cassian knew better. She was wary and a wary Nesta was a dangerous one.

He resisted palming a hand over his face. He didn’t want to bring up Feyre, but the letter she had given him was sitting in his bedroom like a bad omen. 

It was selfish of him not to have given it to Nesta — he should have passed it on as soon as he’d gotten home — but he had wanted one day with her; one day without the weight of Feyre’s request looming over them. 

“I have a letter from your sister.”

To her credit, Nesta only missed a beat. He watched her lower her mug as she pressed her lips together for a moment, as if she were stopping the anger that wanted to burst forth. Eventually, she just clipped with sheer iciness, “Which one.”

“Feyre.”

Her expression did not darken. No, it was worse than that; it was swept clean like a blank, untouchable canvas.

Nesta held out a hand — a queen demanding means from a loyal subject. It was an order he didn’t dare disobey. Reluctantly he went to retrieve the envelope from the mantle in his room. 

Nesta tore it open without hesitation. He watched her eyes dart across the paper — _Cauldron, she was a quick reader_ — and then a disgusted snort.

She threw the letter across the couch as if the mere presence of it was bringing on a bad smell. 

Cassian didn’t move. 

“From the way you’re looking at me, I gather you know what it says,” she said shortly. 

“Roughly,” Cassian admitted, because he would not lie to her, not about this. Respect had been strung between them and he would not tarnish it with dishonesty.

Steel eyes slid to his. Behind them, something moved. “And do you think I should meet my sister?”

“I think,” Cassian started slowly, “that you need to decide whether mending things with your sister will help you to heal, or whether you need to heal without her.”

Nesta’s lips parted slowly in surprise, her expressionless mask slipping for a fraction of a second. “I would have thought you were on the side of your High Lady.”

“Feyre is my friend, but I’ll support whatever decision you make, Nesta,” Cassian replied. “If you don’t want to meet her, don’t go. If you want to leave here entirely, I’ll take you somewhere else. I meant what I said. You could even go and stay with Lorrian and Frawley if you wanted. Frawley would be pleased about that. She likes you.”

To his relief, Nesta did not take him up on the offer. Instead, she asked, “When does Feyre want to meet?”

“The Saturday after next.”

It was over two weeks from now. It gave Nesta plenty of time to decide.

“She doesn’t understand me.” 

The words were a confession and something twisted inside of him. 

He nodded to indicate that he could relate. “I’m not very good at communicating the important things with Rhys and Az. I might not have family that is blood, but they are my brothers.”

Arrows formed at the base of Nesta’s nose as she frowned and Cassian resisted the urge to smooth them over with his finger. “How do you do it?”

Cassian huffed a breath of laughter. “Well, Az just knows without me having to say anything. I think there’s a mutual understanding that comes from having been mistreated as a child and struggling to survive. But Rhys and I come from very different backgrounds. Before I lived with Rhys and his mother, I didn’t know what it was to _not_ be hungry. I had never slept in a bed or taken a hot bath. So sometimes Rhys and I find it a little harder to communicate. I’ve learnt over the years that the best thing to do is to show him.”

That beautiful frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

Cassian tapped a long scar-flecked finger to his temple. “Mind to mind. It’s better than saying it aloud. Took me a good couple of centuries to figure it out, but it works for me.”

He stood and stretched his wings lazily before taking Nesta’s empty mug. He watched her unfurl from the cushions.

“I’m going to try and get some sleep. There’s still hot water if you want to stand in the tub.” 

“Are you saying I smell?” Nesta countered, mimicking his earlier statement.

Snorting, Cassian nearly missed the light in her eyes as he tugged at a loose strand of her hair. He did it without thinking, as if he and Nesta were able to touch one another as they liked. The lines had been blurred today. Nearly dying had him scrambling to touch her; to make sure she was real and still breathing. He caught himself just as his fingers curled around golden brown and Nesta stilled. 

Slowly, Cassian dropped his hand, trying in vain to pretend that the action hadn’t been a slip on his part. 

He grinned wolfishly. “That depends if you want to go to bed with blood in your hair.”

To his surprise, Nesta did not bat him away. Instead, he watched her lips part and her pupils widen slightly. Silver slid across her irises again and Cassian’s heart thumped slow and hard against his ribcage. Deep inside of him, something began to turn.

“I could use you at the camps if you ever feel up for the trip.”

Nesta blinked at his words. It was what he had planned — to end their trance — but Cassian found himself mourning the loss anyway. He wanted to kiss her so badly that the air around them seemed to thrum with tension. There was a desperation to it that told him that if she were to let him, that it would end up with their bodies pressed together and his hands feverish and unstoppable as he tried to memorise every inch of skin. 

Sometimes it worried Cassian the level to which he desired her. Yet, the frantic, relentless energy that pounded in his blood was laced with such tenderness it hurt him to think about it. He wanted to make her feel good; to coax noises out of her until she shattered around him. Never before had his pleasure been so inconsequential. He supposed that’s what it was to care deeply.

Cassian needed to step away, but his body wouldn’t let him. Instead, he remained as still as possible, battling the instincts that were urging him to close the distance and find out what her mouth tasted like when they weren’t about to die. 

“Why?”

The word was short but laced with something he translated as intrigue.

“Your ability to sense emotions would be useful,” Cassian told Nesta, keeping his voice steady, as if he were wholly unaffected by her proximity. “It would enable you to read a room if you harnessed your power. There’s a Solstice luncheon for the camp lords every year and some of the main culprits behind the discontent would be there. You could come with me.”

“I’d be useful?”

Something cracked inside of him — at the hope in Nesta’s voice. 

“Before you even had your powers, I’ve never seen anyone read a room so adeptly. With your ability to sense others emotions… you’d be invaluable,” Cassian told her honestly. “You could identify when people are lying or when they react strongly to something. It’s an insight we wouldn’t normally have. With news of the sword this evening, we’re going to have to move faster than we had anticipated when it comes to quashing the rebellion.”

Nesta was quiet for a moment. She was still so close to him that he could scent her jasmine and vanilla. He tried to ignore the way his blood sung at her proximity, choosing instead to focus on the way her head was upturned so she could level her gaze with his… the elegant point to her tilted chin. In his mind’s eye, Cassian saw him bending down to kiss her, his fingers winging through her hair so he could better access her mouth. 

At his sides, Cassian clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into the meat of his palms. 

“You aren’t going back to Velaris for Solstice?”

This time it was Cassian that blinked. With it, the vision disappeared.

“No, not this year,” he said, scrabbling to recover. “I usually neglect the Solstice luncheon but with things this bad, it would be stupid of me not to attend.”

“Won’t your family miss you?”

Cassian shrugged. “They know it can’t be helped. Rhys and I agreed it was for the best. I’ll go back to Velaris a few days later. Will you come?”

The deathly way Nesta froze had his heart lurching. “Not to Velaris, not if you don’t want to,” he corrected quickly. “I meant the luncheon.”

That beautiful frown was back again. “I can’t always sense emotions.”

“We can work on that,” Cassian promised. “Azriel might be able to help. Would you work with him? You seem to like him best out of all of us, after all.”

Nesta’s snort was soft, but she only said, “Ok.”

“Ok?” Even though he’d been desperate to have her agree, Cassian couldn’t believe his ears.

He waited for Nesta to snap and bite, but she only gave a pointed dip of her chin. Those liquid silver eyes struck with blue were set with a determination he had yet to see in her. “I said ok, didn’t I?” Then, she ordered, “I’ll ask Azriel, not you.”

Cassian’s eyebrows flicked into his hairline but… “Works for me, sweetheart. He’ll be here tomorrow. You can ask him then.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta trains with Azriel. Cassian and Nesta go to Spearhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely readers, I hope you have all had a good week. Loved the comments from last week's chapter. It's so funny, because it wasn't one of my favourites, but it had so many of you feeling all the feels! 
> 
> I know lots of you have been excited about the re-appearance of Az and I can promise that you get him first thing in this chapter.
> 
> For those of you on Tumblr, I'll be posting a few teaser sentences from the next E&L chapter every Wednesday. You can find me @duskandstarlight.
> 
> Enjoy! And as usual, let me know your thoughts :)

**Chapter Twenty-One  
** **Nesta** ****

The next two weeks went by in an extended blur — slow yet fast — as Nesta was thrown into training with an intensity that left her mentally and physically exhausted. Cassian hadn’t been joking when he’d told her he’d have her ready to slay with the longsword soon enough. Never before had he been so critical and sharp, not a sliver of a smile on his face each morning as he warmed her up through the guard positions in the sparring ring. Cassian would make her practice those moves until there was not a step out of place, before moving onto footwork and then actual swordplay, which always ended with Nesta hissing in annoyance when she made an error and left herself open for attack.

Despite that, Nesta knew she was learning faster than others. Nesta saw it in the way Cassian would push her harder still, even when she knew her moves were perfect. On occasion, Nesta would catch his eyes gleaming, utterly thrilled, as if her vicious thrust with the steel were almost the equivalent of her peeling off her clothes until she was wearing nothing but skin. 

Staying true to her word, Nesta had asked Azriel to harness her ability to sense others emotions. Not a flicker of surprise had flitted across the shadowsinger’s face when she had told him about the element of her power, he’d only bowed his head in such an earnest way that Nesta had wondered whether he was pleased she’d asked. 

The shadowsinger’s training approach hugely differed to his brother’s. Azriel used quiet, calm words rather than barked, fiery orders, but they were no less effective. For their first lesson, Azriel had taken Nesta to a rocky ledge wedged into the right of the mountain pass. It was a viewing platform poised above the sparring rings, which Azriel informed her was used mainly by the war lords and high-status families for the Rite ceremony and major festivals. 

The clang of steel on steel rose up to meet them as the males trained. In the centre of it all was Cassian — a larger than life presence — his towering frame and huge membraneous wings making even the largest Illyrian’s appear inconsequential. Even from their height, Nesta could hear his abrupt orders as he worked the males with an intensity that dared them to defy him. 

They didn’t. There was a begrudging respect amongst the warriors where Cassian was concerned that was easy enough for Nesta to identify. They had not forgotten how Cassian had fought in the war; how his sword had easily sliced through males as if they were made of nothing but air. His movements were like an intricate dance, his body always anticipating the next move, cutting down opponent after opponent as he led his army to victory. The Illyrian’s might not like that Cassian was a bastard, but they could not deny that he was exceptional in combat. So whilst they might sneer at him, they would watch him fight with eyes as sharp as a hawk, and when he corrected a males stance, they listened and adjusted their own technique accordingly.

“You know Devlon?” Azriel asked from behind Nesta, snapping her out of her reverie. He was standing a little back from her, giving her the space to adjust to their surroundings. 

Nesta wondered if he knew about her fear of being caged or the panic that consumed her when things became too loud.

Narrowing her eyes, Nesta searched for the war lord, eventually finding him at the edge of one of the far sparring rings. Two hulking tattooed males loitered by his side. Ragar was one of them, and even from a distance, Nesta spied the pink, raw scar that jagged its way up his jugular and suppressed a shudder. 

“Yes,” Nesta said tightly. “I know Devlon.”

“He’s your target,” Azriel told her. “I want you to try and sense his emotions.”

If anyone other than Azriel had asked her to do something so enormous and unachievable, Nesta would have snapped, but there was something about his calm nature combined with his deathly stillness that had her doing his bidding. 

To her credit, Nesta had tried, but the noises were too loud for her to retreat into herself, even with the headband snuggled tightly on her ears.

“I can’t feel anything,” Nesta had told him shortly after five minutes of silence. Then she found herself confessing, “I don’t know how.”

Azriel shrugged as if her failure was inconsequential. He was leaning against the craggy rock wall, the green and blue of the snowdrops a stark contrast to his body, which was perpetually thrust in and out of shade. “Try Cassian. You’re around him the most, you’ve probably adapted to sensing his emotions unconsciously.”

Nesta had thrown Azriel a sharp look, but she did not correct him. He wasn’t wrong, after all. So she clipped instead, “Some would say that’s an invasion of privacy.”  


Azriel’s lips tugged up at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps. Given that the Solstice luncheon is in three weeks time, I don’t think Cassian will mind.”

Nesta had studied the shadowsinger for a moment. His body was wreathed in shadow but his face was unobscured. It meant that Nesta could see the hard lines of his face. Azriel looked like he had been carved out of marble by the finest sculptor: his jaw perfectly chiseled, his cheekbones well-defined, his eyebrows elegantly arched to frame hazel eyes that were close to Cassian’s in colour, but not quite right. 

“You already know what he’s feeling?”

The corner of Azriel’s lips had twitched again. “I can’t read subtle emotion, only a spike when someone reacts strongly to something and I need proximity to do it. But,” Azriel continued, a rare secretive light blooming behind his eyes as he looked out to his brother in the sparring ring where he was demonstrating spear technique with another Illyrian, “I don’t need to tap into Cassian’s emotions right now. I can already tell.” 

He settled his gaze back on Nesta, but they were encouraging rather than hard. “Try,” he urged her, with a smoothness that reminded Nesta of the chill of the midnight blue sky.

Closing her eyes, Nesta forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. She knew the scent of Cassian like it was woven into her DNA — pine, musk and fresh air — and she flung herself out like a fisherman casting a net, searching for him amongst the crowd. Emotion crashed into her with the force akin to a final blow as she let that icy wall around her own emotions thaw. She wanted to curl up into a ball and howl from the intensity of it all, but she forced herself to remain standing, even though it _hurt._ Nesta flitted through it all — the anger, awe, fury, irritation, calm, jealousy, and begrudged admiration of others — until she located him. It came with such sudden ease that Nesta wondered if it had found her rather than the other way around — the concern and sharp anger — that settled like a weight in the lining of her stomach. The sensation was undeniably Cassian. She knew it in her bones.

“Stop.” 

One quiet, chilled command had Nesta opening her eyes with a shuddering gasp. She clambered to stack up those ice blocks until she felt numb and completely devoid of any feeling. The contrast to moments before was worse somehow, as if she had been seeing in colour but now she only viewed everything in shades of black and white.

The first thing she noticed as mud, pine and grey sharpened her vision was Cassian looking at her with a wild sort of concern in his eyes. Despite the distance, Nesta felt as if he were there with her, reaching to rest his palm against her cheek and bring her back. He had spun to stare up at them, as if he had known where they were the entire time. In his hand, his spear was poised and ready, as if he were planning to launch it through the skies to put an end to an approaching attack.

Adjusting her gaze, Nesta stared over Cassian’s shoulder to stare at the warrior he had been sparring. The male was panting, his wings heaving as he took the moment’s reprieve to catch his breath before Cassian no doubt threw himself at the warrior again. 

“Good,” Azriel praised after a beat. “Did you feel anything?”

“He’s angry,” Nesta replied shortly. She didn’t add how she’d felt his concern, she didn’t think it necessary and if Azriel was half as good as others had insinuated, then he knew that already. 

Even though Nesta knew Azriel must have felt Cassian’s surprise, he did not voice it. He only asked, “And how did you do it?”

Nesta fought the pink that wanted to blush across her cheeks. Instead, she raised her chin as her eyes narrowed and her entire body tensed, prepared battle. “I dropped my protective shield.”

It was a huge concession but Azriel did not judge her for the permanent cage she kept on her emotions. There was no softened expression or gentle words, only understanding as the shadowsinger nodded. “To sense what others feel you have to let down your own guard. You can’t expect to feel others if you can’t feel your own. Magic is always a balance — give and take. For Cassian and I, our magic and siphons allow us to fight with more precision, but by doing so, we drain our energy reserves. With your ability to sense what others are feeling, you must give a part of yourself, too. It is the same for me; my shadows can filter through the darkness for the feelings others hide, but only if I allow myself to become vulnerable.”

That explained the expressionless face of marble and the shadows that hid Azriel from view. Like Nesta, Azriel preferred to fade into the background; to observe rather than to be observed. There were similarities between them that Nesta could not deny. Perhaps that was why he did not irritate her like others did.

“I have detected others emotions without dropping my shields before,” Nesta told Azriel, remembering Mas’s pain as she slipped on the mountain and Cassian’s guilt after the kerits had attacked.

Azriel nodded. “I suspect when emotions are particularly high they manage to pierce through whatever shields you have in place, especially those you interact with on a day-to-day basis. Basic, more subtle emotion will come at a price.”

Nesta’s expression hardened. To let down her icy shield that protected her from feeling too much had been an unwitting battle she had endured all of her life. One of the cruellest things from being Made was that Nesta’s ability to feel had increased two-fold. She suspected that was why her battle trauma was worse than others: why the deaths of loved ones pierced her heart and rendered it with holes whilst others appeared in tact; why Cassian made her want to rend the sky apart. Nobody had ever made Nesta feel as much as he had.

“You’re clever to have put a protective shield in place,” Azriel told her, breaking her out of her train of thought. “When I was younger, I struggled with my ability to feel more than others. It took me many years to understand how to master my shadows and accept them as an extension of myself. Now, I would not let them go, not for anything.”

His expression had hardened. Nesta knew a little of Azriel’s upbringing — the bare bones from Cassian, who had mentioned it in passing during their training sessions — but not enough. 

Azriel had endured cruelty beyond Nesta’s wildest imaginings. His scarred hands were testament to that. And to think that for years the shadows had been his only friend; until he had decided that he would allow them to wind through his magic, like two strands of a rope. Was that not what Nesta had done when she carved a piece out of the Cauldron to take for herself? When she had heard that awesome, archaic voice call to her in the dark, her body churning up inky water onto the rocky ground, her lungs heaving. When that flicker of light had grown in the midnight black, shining like a newborn star.

“Do you think it’s possible,” Nesta had asked, wanting to push that memory far, far away, “for me to learn how to read others emotions well enough before the luncheon?”

The way in which Azriel was wreathing shadows between his open fingers indicated to Nesta that she had not been wholly there for a while. He did not comment, only gave a curt nod of the head. “With some determination, I believe we can have you reading others emotions in three weeks time.” Azriel came to stand beside Nesta. He smelt of night-kissed mist and cedar. “I do not envy you going to that luncheon.”

Nesta raised an imploring eyebrow and resisted crossing her arms over her chest. “What does that mean?”

Hazel eyes scanned the sparring rings below them. “Cassian tells me you experienced first-hand how unpleasant Devlon can be.” His lips quirked up at the sides. “I wish I had been there to see it.”

Nesta’s snort was soft as she remembered how Devlon had recoiled at her flames. “The other war lords are really that bad?”

“It’s not how I would choose to spend Solstice,” Azriel admitted. “The tensions between the war lords are always high, but putting them all into one room together, especially at Ironcrest…” He grimaced as he trailed off. “Lord Marsh has not hosted the Solstice luncheon for at least a century. It has us all wondering whether it was him that decided to hold the event at his premises or whether it was his son’s influence.”

“Brutes,” Nesta said darkly. Azriel’s eyes lit with what Nesta dissected as amusement. “Cassian says they have pulled forward a meeting? About the Rite?”

Azriel nodded. “Yes. The Rite is in the Spring. Every year the war lords come together to talk through arrangements and for each camp to put forward their contenders. It is not normally held until the new year, but Marsh has suggested hosting the meeting after the luncheon, especially given that Ironcrest are hosting the ceremony this year.”

“You think there’s something untoward going on?”

Azriel shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s an unusual move. Illyrian’s are steadfast in their habits and are not usually open to change. The good news is that it gives you more time to hunt for the sword and identify whether it’s authentic.” 

Nesta noticed that Azriel had not associated himself with the Illyrian’s. She did not blame him given how he had been treated. Nesta did not like to spoken of in relation to the Cauldron either.

“I want you to repeat what we have practiced every day,” Azriel told Nesta just before he had melted into shadow, his gaze on the horizon; at the sun which was a line of orange before it disappeared entirely to give way to dusk. “Find a target and work on only engaging with their emotions. I will be back in three days. Make them count.”

Nesta had refused Azriel’s offer to take her back to the bungalow. Instead, she had walked down the rocky steps to the training rings, only to find a sweat-soaked Cassian waiting for her. 

They had walked back together in companionable silence, Nesta pondering Azriel’s advice; that it would be difficult to allow herself to feel everything all at once. Little and often was the key, he had told her with an apologetic smile, with lots of rest inbetween. Lowering her guard after a lifetime of shielding them was akin to a deaf person suddenly gaining their hearing back — overwhelming. 

Azriel was not wrong. Drained from the intensity of the practice, Nesta had been so exhausted that she had all but crawled onto the couch once they had arrived back to the warmth of the bungalow before she had fallen straight to sleep. 

She had dreamt of Cassian. Not of the their final moments in the war, but flashes of moments from the day of the kerits — thoughts that she would have usually pushed to the far reaches of her mind: of the way Cassian had looked down at her on his knees after they had defeated the beasts; the comforting scrape of his callouses as he rested his palm on her cheek; the feel of his fingers winding around a tendril of hair; how he had stared down at her with an intensity she should not have allowed, let alone felt… 

But Nesta had been unable to look away as those bright hazel eyes had darted to her lips for a second too long. Between them, Nesta had heard his heart beating too fast against his ribcage; the insistent thump against strips of bone resonating in her ears, wrapping around her own wild rhythm. A phantom hand had wound through her hair, and she’d had to catch herself as her chin started to tilt upwards of its own accord…

The pull had been so intense that Nesta had been relieved when he had broken the spell. It was the draw that she had once accused of being Faerie magic. Now she knew it was not that at all, but a magnetism strung between them that she still could not shake. It called her name, begging her to close the distance, and Nesta had woken from the relived moment panting, her fingers slick with desire and a flood of relief when she realised that she was in her bed with the door firmly shut rather than in the living room.

Nesta had been having that dream regularly ever since, amongst others. Males with no faces, large calloused hands dragging over bare skin, lips and tongues pressing kisses into her skin… The visions kindled a gentle fire in her that licked pleasantly through her core, and Nesta often woke humming with a different sort of energy that had previously had her pinning down the nearest male to chase that waving crest of an orgasm.

“I thought we should head to Spearhead for training today,” Cassian told Nesta that morning, as they stood by the front door ready to leave the house. 

Nesta caught the headband he tossed at her with ease and settled it over her ears. She never left the house without it.

Cassian looked unusually well-rested, the dark smudges having all-but faded beneath his eyes. He must not have had any nightmares recently if he was sleeping well, but Nesta knew it would be short-lived. Since they had been co-existing together, she had witnessed Cassian flit between wellness and sleep deprivation within the blink of an eye. 

Nesta pulled on some long, knee-high boots that would protect her in the snow drifts. “We don’t have to go there,” she told him.

Cassian shot Nesta a sideways glance. “If your power is influenced by emotion, we need to practice in a place that effects how you wield it.”

He cocked his head at her, trying to dissect the inner workings of her mind. Something swept over his expression that looked like disappointment. “Do you not want to fly?”

Refraining from rolling her eyes, Nesta said shortly, “I thought you might prefer to train somewhere else.”

The way Cassian’s eyes softened was so slight Nesta nearly missed it, but she felt it in her core. “I make a point of going back from time to time,” Cassian assured her. Then he added, “It serves as a reminder.” 

They stepped out into the frigid cold. Windhaven was covered in a fresh blanket of snow, a storm having hit days before and rendering the mountain pass sparkling white. They had literally had to dig some of the tents out of the snow and Nesta had been so terrified for the orphans and widows that she had made Cassian fly her up as soon as weather had eased up. They had spent the day helping the widows camp to function again. It had pained her that she could not control her fire enough to melt the snow for them, but Cassian had warned her that it could only be used on certain parts of the camp anyway. So Nesta had picked up a shovel instead and helped to shift as much of it as possible whilst Cassian disappeared to melt the path that ran up the mountain. 

Later, she had braved the camp fire to curl up with Roksana and a few of the other orphans, using her body warmth to thaw their frozen limbs as she recounted story after story until Cassian had come to take her back to the bungalow. 

She had kept her promise to him about venturing out into the camp after dark.

The wind stung as Cassian got them airborne, but then he slid a shield over them in a sheath of red light and the air became still and quiet. It didn’t stop it from being any less cold and Nesta held back a shiver, not wanting him to notice how weak she was being.

But after ten minutes of being in the skies, that resolve had all but faded. Her fingers and toes were so numb she considered that they might fall off.

She scowled. “Are you going deliberately slow?”

Her accusation rang up between them but Cassian only cast a slow look down at her. The movement was deliberate and it had her temper spiking. “Why?”

Nesta’s scowl deepened. “Because it feels as if we are barely moving.”

Cassian cocked a taunting eyebrow. “Be careful Nesta, I’ll throw you into a dive if you keep goading me.” 

A snarl unleashed itself from her throat but Cassian only barked a short laugh. “Is this your convoluted way of telling me to go faster?”

Nesta made an unimpressed sound. “All I’m saying is that despite your fancy magic I am still freezing and it would be nice if we made it to Spearhead before noon.”

Another laugh — delighted this time — and Cassian picked up the pace with a few strong flaps of his wings. His eyes were begging for some verbal sparring as he looked down at her. “I’m starting to think you’re getting used to being in the sky, sweetheart.”

Nesta shrugged, refusing to rise to his taunt. Instead, she cast her gaze down to the snow-kissed landscape. Up this high, it looked stunning rather than brutal; a glittering, blank canvas. “It reminds me of riding,” she admitted.  
  
That peaked Cassian’s interest. He flung his wings out wide so they soared for a moment longer. Even still, the movement was faster than it had been before her accusation, and the wind roared around the shield he’d put in place. “You used to ride?”

Staring down at the feathered snow-capped pine trees of The Steppes, Nesta dipped her chin. “Before we lost everything,” she said vaguely, but as the memory of it hit her, she found herself snorting abruptly.

Cassian’s lips twitched. “What?” he asked.

He was concentrating on the path ahead of them, and from her view point, Nesta could see every one of his dark eye lashes. They were crusted with ice. This high up, the cold was even more punishing than in the mountain pass. Nesta had no idea why Cassian didn’t extend his shield to cover his entire body. It probably had something to do with the Illyrian’s tendency for self-punishment. 

In order to distract herself, Nesta snorted again. “My mother only wanted me to learn side saddle — to ride like a lady,” she explained shortly, “but I used to sneak down in the mornings and gallop across the fields before she was awake. It made me feel alive. Flying is the closest I’ve come to that feeling — the rush and freedom of it.”

It was true. Not at first — not when Feyre’s arrogant mate had sped fast enough to make her vomit — but much later, with Cassian, Nesta had come to hunger for the skies. Flying was exhilarating, Nesta had found, and she wanted more. She wasn’t sure she’d ever like it when Cassian dove, but when he speared through the air, his wings tucked in tight… it made Nesta feel awake.

“And nobody knew?”

Cassian’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She gave a disinterested shrug, making sure the movement was small so Cassian didn’t lose his hold on her. “My father, I think, but he never told anyone and he was often travelling. I bribed the stable boy to teach me to ride properly.”

Wicked amusement loosed a hand over Cassian’s face. “What did you bribe him with?”

“He used to frolic in the hay with a girl — I caught him when he was supposed to be working.”

A sound of amusement rang in the back of Cassian’s throat, as if he were imagining a young Nesta bargaining and threatening a stable boy years older than her to do her bidding. But he only asked carefully, “You were close to your mother?”

That was not a subject Nesta wanted to discuss, so she shut him down. “I wanted to be.”

Cassian nodded in a way that told her he understood. “And would you ride now, if you could?”

Nesta cut him a quizzical look. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Although I would need to relearn. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the saddle.”

The attention had been on Nesta for too long and her skin was itching with interrogation. Even though it was her who had brought it up, she felt exposed in a way she no longer felt comfortable with. Mentally, she stitched up the wound until she felt calm again. Cassian remained silent, as if he knew that she could not continue.

Eventually, she turned the tables — a deflection and… curiosity. “Do you remember your mother?”

A surprised pause but no sensation lined Nesta’s stomach. He was getting better at catching them; reigning them in so she would not sense them. Sometimes he managed it, other times he didn’t. 

“Barely,” Cassian said finally. He did not look down at her and Nesta wondered if speaking about her was precious to him; something he did not usually voice out loud but preferred to keep inside. Nesta understood, so she stared resolutely at the landscape rather than him. “I remember her voice and her hands as we sat around a camp fire. She used to sing to me. This… Illyrian lullaby. I can barely remember it, only a few lines.”

“What were they?” Nesta’s voice was too soft, too quiet, but she knew somehow that Cassian had never told anybody this before. That this information was just as precious to him as _Heroicis_.

She sensed rather than saw Cassian’s frown. “It sounds better in Illyrian than in translation.”

“Say it in Illyrian then,” she said. Her voice was not demanding but encouraging. A rarity for her. 

Cassian seemed to sense it too, because after a slight pause, he dropped into Illyrian with an ease that made her shudder. She listened to the quiet intensity in which he spoke; the gentle lilt in his voice that was almost trance like. She had no idea what it meant, but she felt tears rise to her eyes before she could stop them. 

Cassian didn’t notice. She could tell he was still frowning as he finished. “It doesn’t sound right,” he said, slipping back into the common tongue. “It’s supposed to be sung not spoken, but I don’t remember the tune.”

But Nesta would not allow him to taint the words — the words that clearly meant so much to him. She reached her hand up to curl around his shoulder. He looked down at her in surprise. 

“It’s beautiful,” she told him with a reverence she reserved for no-one. “Will you translate it for me?”

Nesta wasn’t sure if Cassian saw the silver lining her eyes as his dark eyes scoured her face. Eventually, he nodded simply in answer, and when he spoke, all of the hairs stood up on her arms as a shiver ran down her body. 

_“Goodnight my warrior heart,  
Soon Mother won’t hold you fast.  
_ _One day she will watch you go,  
_ _But she’ll search high and low,  
_ _For the twin stars in the night.”_

The moment afterwards stretched between them as Cassian banked slightly to the right, his eyes flitting up to view the course ahead. Forest green in dusted white made way to craggy snow-capped mountains, and then beyond that, a pointed stretch of flat mountain pass — Spearhead.

“Have you tried to find out the rest of the lullaby?” Nesta asked when she was certain her voice would not waver.

“Not really,” Cassian admitted. “I asked Rhys’ mother but she didn’t know it. Some lullabies are native to camps and the females… well, they’re scared of me, because of what I did. And… it’s something that I’ve kept for myself for a long time. To speak of it too often made me feel as though I had to part with a piece of it.”

“But would you like to know? If the information was there?”

“Yes,” Cassian said quietly. “I’d like to know.”

Then, as if he too has exposed too much of himself, he said in a voice that was far more conversational and indicated an end to their discussion, “Other than that, I don’t remember much of my time before Windhaven.” Cassian started their descent. He was still moving with greater speed. The rhythm seemed natural for him, and Nesta wondered just how often he had been holding back from tasting the skies as he liked for fear she would give him hell. “All I have in my memory is cold, mud, hunger and too-small fires.”

Nesta nodded even as a lump formed in her throat. She knew what it was to starve and feel unimaginable cold, but to think of Cassian as a little boy cradled against his mother’s chest made the ice want to crack inside of her. She knew what it was to huddle against bodies for warmth so you didn’t freeze to death; she had done that with her sisters night after night, even though the gesture had only ever brought the knowledge that she would never warm up. 

Cassian glanced back down at her, and in his eyes she saw a shared understanding that bound them together: _You know what it’s like to be starving and cold with no promise of warmth._

_“_ The snow will be deep,” Cassian warned Nesta as he set her down on the boulder in the clearing she had previously burned. “Let me clear some of it so we can spar. I will not be responsible for your frostbite, not when I know how much hell you’ll give me for it.”

Nesta snorted but did not disagree with him. She watched Cassian carve out a training ground for them and tried not to shiver. It was obscenely cold this high up and the wind was so sharp it stung her skin with a ferocity that made her thankful her headband was tight around her head. She was wearing sheepskin leathers, with thermals underneath and knee high boots that Cassian had eyed a little too long when she’d first worn them. 

Despite all of her clothing, Nesta’s body still wanted to shake.

She had been slowly and surely been putting on weight, and whilst her cheeks had started to fill out, Nesta wished she’d taken Cassian’s many offerings of second helpings — the extra body fat would be a blessing right now…

A flare of Cassian’s siphons caught her attention as the air hung quiet around them yet again.

“We won’t hear one another otherwise,” Cassian said in explanation. “And,” he added with a feral grin that did nothing to hide the concern layered beneath it, “your lips have turned blue.”

His grin widened at Nesta’s hiss, but he held out a hand to help her down. She batted him away before reluctantly realising it was too far and allowed him to bear her weight as she jumped into the sludgy snow. From the first impact, Nesta felt the cold seep through the thick soles of her boots and creep into the fur lining.  ****

“I want to try something new today.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes. “If you are about to make a sexual advance as a disguise for warming me up, I advise against it.”

Cassian’s canines flashed at the same time his hazel eyes sparked. “Don’t give me ideas, Nesta. I could think of some fun ways to warm you up.” 

Nesta snort was unimpressed as she flicked her eyes to the sky. “So predictable,” she sniped. When she held her fingers up, they sparked silver fire. “I can think of some ways to warm you up, too.”

Throwing back his head, Cassian laughed. It was a rough sound, but Nesta heard it for what it was — a distraction. The last time they had visited this mountain pass, Cassian had been in a foul mood and Nesta had been no better. It hadn’t been helped by the memory of pain and suffering that had wound its way from the ground and into Nesta’s blood, until her stomach had been churning with it. Already Nesta could feel the same thing happening; a vibration in her limbs as the energy of years-worth of torment rushed to meet her power. And Cassian… well, being here must be awful for him. Just the knowledge that his mother dwelled here in an unmarked grave made Nesta want to rend apart the sky from the agony of it.

Unclipping a siphon from his armour, Cassian cradled the jewel in the heart of his palm. “I want you to wear this.”

Nesta stared at him in disbelief. She couldn’t have heard him right. “Excuse me.”

Cassian’s lips briefly tightened into a thin line. His mood was darkening by the second and from the slight sensation lining her stomach, she could sense trepidation. This was not a decision he had made lightly.

Yet he stretched his arm out towards her anyway. “Take it,” he ordered, in a way that told him he would not change his mind.

Nesta took the siphon from Cassian. She expected the stone to feel heavy and lifeless in her hand but it pulsed as she touched it; warm, as if it were a steady, beating heart. That heat travelled into her palm… into her veins… until it met her singing power. The siphon glowed as deep as blood as her silver mist curled around it in greeting.

Nesta’s head snapped up to look at Cassian in shock. His eyes had turned hard and unyielding but there was also a light in them that had not been there before. The siphons on his armour were also glowing, as if they too could feel the thrum in its counterpart.

“Siphons store magic,” Cassian told Nesta. His voice had dropped impossibly low — intense. “I’ve wondered for a long while if your magic would be compatible with them.”

Nesta’s eyes widened at the confession — at the gravity of what he was admitting. Once, when she had been very bored and had run out of books, Nesta had dipped into the first few pages of Cassian’s book on siphons, so she roughly knew how they worked. She also knew that Cassian had needed seven to hold the enormity of his power — that if he were to have too few, his Killing Power would blast them to nothing but red dust. 

“I could have shattered it,” Nesta snapped. “Are you insane?”

“But you didn’t,” was all Cassian replied. His hands came to her shoulders, steering her so she was facing the clearing of ashen tree stumps and black landscape that should have been pine and stone before she had unleashed hell on it. “Your magic works differently to mine. It is not designed to simply kill. How does it feel?”

“Fine.” 

_More than fine._ Nesta felt as if her skin were singing, her power flowing into the stone as if it were running through a filter. It did not clamber or claw like it usually did; it only filled up the stone like it were an extension of herself. The rest of her immense magic remained in her veins. And Nesta felt stronger… much stronger.

“Illyrian’s use siphons to make our raw magic more precise,” Cassian told her. His voice vibrated against the shell of her ear. He was still holding on to her shoulders, his hands warm despite the immense cold. “We know that you do not need siphons to master your magic, but I thought you could practice using one of mine so you can feel what it is to be in control. If you get a sense of how it feels, I am hoping that you will be able to slip into it more easily when the time comes to practice without one.”

Sensing Nesta’s confusion, Cassian elaborated, “Think of it like the training wheels of a bike. You use them to get a sense of balance, but eventually you have to take the wheels off and master it alone.”

Cassian reached over Nesta to take the siphon from her outstretched hand. Without it Nesta felt light — untethered. The loss was too keen for something she’d only just touched, and from the way Cassian tensed behind her, she wondered if he had sensed it too. Blinking, Nesta turned to see Cassian reaching into his tunic pocket. He brought out a thin corded rope and thread it between the two hooks at the top of the jewel before tying the rope tightly at the ends. He looped it over Nesta’s neck before she realised what was happening.

Nesta stared down at where the ruby rested against her sternum and then back up at Cassian.

“Tuck it beneath your leathers to keep it safe,” Cassian told her. 

Nesta didn’t argue. Somehow she knew the gravitas of the moment. Without Cassian’s siphons — his refined Killing Power — he believed himself wholly unworthy. Yet despite the importance of those stones, he was lending one to her. He had risked her _shattering_ it. So Nesta coaxed the makeshift necklace beneath her leathers until the stone touched bare skin.

“This is the closest you will ever get to touching my chest,” she clipped coldly, trying to ignore how the heat from the ruby was seeping into her skin, the sensation deliciously warm.

Cassian’s laugh was deep and rich. “We’ll see.”

“You will not,” she snapped, even as her skin burned with the intent behind his words.

Cassian dared to wink at her as he stepped back. With a flare of ruby, a target appeared in the ashen clearing ahead of them.

“We’ll use the siphon as a way for you to practice settling into a sense of calm,” Cassian told her, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. The change in his voice told her that he was done playing. “Us Illyrian’s call it the Killing Calm; when everything goes deadly still in your head before you enter battle. Does that sound familiar to you?”

“Yes,” Nesta admitted begrudgingly. It was what had happened with both Devlon and Ragar and his cronies.  
  
Cassian nodded in understanding. “I thought so. When you’re angry or overwhelmed, you expel your power in one go. By settling into a sense of calm, we can teach you to master your magic. The siphon will allow you to do that. Let’s practice.”

Nesta hit the target every time. She started by striking the outer edge, but by the end of their practice Nesta’s power was burning holes through the bullseye with a precision that even had Cassian nodding in admiration. 

“And all the trees are in tact,” Cassian mused after he’d told her to rest. “We need to work on finessing your flames, but that was a good start. I suspect the memory of emotions from the camp is effecting your control.”

It was true, whilst Nesta had hit the target every time, she had also blasted it to smithereens with each impact. Cassian had replaced them with a casual flare of his siphons, and although Nesta had become a little better over the course of the session, the pain and agony that hummed through her veins had overloaded her magic so that it roared. 

Slamming up layers and layers of shield had done nothing to mute the sensation. Despite the siphon, Nesta’s power was constantly replenished and raring to be expelled. In the end, Nesta had given up, allowing her power to blaze through the air with a precise sort of havoc that had Cassian’s eyes gleaming and a muscle feathering in his jaw; as if he was waiting in thrilled anticipation to see what she was capable of at the same time he was hoping she would master it.

As if sensing that Nesta still felt restless, Cassian magicked some longswords and put her to work.

Fighting with the longsword made Nesta feel powerful and strong, but today she was unstoppable, an endless energy pounding through her veins. A month ago, when they had first started training with the sword, Cassian had made her begin with a wooden replica. He had quickly realised that her enhanced strength meant that she could wield the real thing with little difficulty. For all of her starvation, Nesta found that eating regularly had allowed her to slip into her inner strength with an ease that had astounded her. It had not surprised Cassian. He had only observed her bring the sword up into ochs before switching through the guard drill he had taught her with a fierce sort of respect that had made her take stock.

After Cassian could no longer critique her guard drills, they began to spar. Each clang of her steel against Cassian’s only made her feel stronger. Today, on this agonised land, Nesta was faster in every sense of the word — her body as sharp as her mind — and she and Cassian fell into a rhythmic sort of dance, their puffs of breath clouding the air around them. 

That’s when it happened. Somehow Nesta forced Cassian into the defensive, and when he had thrown her off of him and feinted to the left, Nesta had read him like the page of a well-worn book. She seized the opening, thrusting forward to strike him clean in the side. Cassian’s eyes widened just as her steel struck his armour.

They stopped abruptly. Nesta’s lungs were burning with the effort but her veins hummed, and the siphon beneath her leathers pulsed as Cassian’s flared. The sensation was like another heartbeat.

Her mouth twisted into a wicked smile of its own accord, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as Cassian’s jaw went slack. She had struck him. _She_ had struck _him._ And in her stomach wasn’t Cassian’s sense of disbelief, but admiration and pride. 

“I believe that was a clean hit, Lord of Bloodshed. Remind me, how long have you been training as a warrior?”

The snicker that left Cassian did not mask the awe that had fallen across his dark features. “A humble warrior doesn't gloat, sweetheart.”

Nesta snorted. “Then it would seem I am not a humble warrior.”

Cassian laughed. His pupils were still blown wide; light brown interspersed with green, like forked lightning through chocolate. This was not like the laughter she usually heard. This was completely unchained and joyous. It melted into the atmosphere, into the stone; a fraction of light within the dark.

“I should have known you wouldn’t be modest,” he told her. “Will I ever hear the end of this?”

“No,” Nesta replied. 

Her lips had fallen slightly, but a rare amount of amusement remained across her features. The sensation made her feel lighter… less heavy and manicured. It was not something she’d let anyone privy to. But she supposed Cassian had seen all of her now. And he had not run. He had made mistakes, just as she had. Both of them were stumbling on new legs after the war but they were trying to find alternative paths for themselves. When Nesta searched deep inside herself she found that there was no resentment, not today. Maybe tomorrow… but for now. She looked around them at the unencumbered view; the sky streaked with pastel hues, the sun glowing impossibly large so that everything sparkled, making the snow appear as if it were alive.

Cassian was watching her with an expression that she could not dissect. So she wrinkled her nose and asked, “What now?”

With a wave of his hand, the longswords vanished.

She quirked a questioning eyebrow at him, but Cassian only winked at her with a devilish grin that made her blood _boil_ beneath her skin. 

Instinctively, she glared at him. Anything to get rid of the unwanted heat that felt like a brand.

“Training with the longsword is essential, but every Illyrian chooses a speciality in combat depending on their strengths,” Cassian told her. His smile had turned smug, which told her that he knew she was flustered. He waved a hand and a weapon’s rack appeared out of thin air. “Choose a weapon,” he ordered.

Nesta crossed her arms firmly over her chest. It was a small act of defiance. “I’m not Illyrian.”

Cassian shrugged. The gesture was relaxed, but his next words were serious, “Then who are you, Nesta?”

“You should be asking, _what am I?_ ” she parried, hoping to deflect the question — to watch his eyes gleam.

But Cassian only snorted and waved a jewelled hand. “What are you? Who are you? Who do you want to be? How will you stake your legacy? These are all important questions in Illyrian culture. Illyrian’s believe that you carve your own individual fate — that you can decide how you want to be remembered. Every mistake in the sparring ring is a valuable life lesson. They look forward not back.”

Cassian loosed a breath at the stubborn expression on her face. “You don’t have to choose a weapon if you don't want to, but I have a feeling that the longsword isn’t your calling.”

Nesta’s nostrils flared. “Are you saying I’m bad? I just struck you, if you don’t recall.”

“No, if you continue your training you could be excellent if you wanted to be,” Cassian replied. The remark was off-hand but Nesta knew that was a compliment beyond reckoning. Cassian might be kind, but in the sparring ring praise was hard to come by. _Ok, Again_ and _That wasn’t half bad_ , were the best Nesta usually received during their training sessions. When he was particularly pleased, he might throw in a _Good_ , but for the most part Cassian was hard-faced and serious.

Nesta tried and failed to hide how the praise affected her, even as her skin started to heat. 

But for once, Cassian was not paying attention. He shook his head, as if he were emptying his head of thoughts. “I just have a feeling that there is a better weapon for you,” was all he said eventually. “Would you like to choose?”

Nesta studied him for a moment. There was no mockery in his gaze, only sincerity. She did not respond, she only stood up to the rack and took in the weapon’s before her

Her eyes slid over the knives, her gut only twisting slightly in response — a sign of how far she had come — the spear, the mace, the crossbow, the war hammer, and sword after sword after sword, until finally her power leapt and rubies pulsed. Reaching out, Nesta traced the curve of the bow with her fingertips, feeling the intricate carvings similar to the black tattoos that marked Cassian’s skin. It was beautiful and deadly and _hers._

She turned to Cassian with an expression that told him he was not to argue. “This one.”

To her surprise, Cassian just nodded. There was no mocking, he only nodded to the bow, urging her to take it. 

Her skin hummed as she picked it up. The bow was larger than any weapon she had handled before, but somehow it did not dwarf her frame. The wood was polished and smooth, the curvature of it similar to her upper lip. It felt like an extension of herself, just as Cassian’s siphon slotted into a carved out piece of her that had remained empty, waiting unknowingly.

“How does it feel?”

“Right,” Nesta said simply.

Cassian nodded. The movement was short and decided, as if her words set it in stone. “Good. We’ll incorporate it into your training.” He waved a hand and the bow vanished along with the weapon’s rack. “Let’s go back to Windhaven.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any major errors. I'm going to edit this again in the morning, but I wanted to keep to my promise and give you something today!
> 
> And also, I'm sorry... this is an eventful chapter...
> 
> p.s For those of you wanting Nessian smut or to read more from me, I have written the one-shot Habits this week. It's up on A03 and it's an E&L AU, based on the premise that Nesta and Cassian fall into sleeping with one another far sooner than in this fic. Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: Chapter edited. Thank you for everybody bearing with all of the grammatical errors, I was clearly very tired last night!

**Chapter Twenty Two  
** **Nesta** ****

Despite the fact that it was only an hour past dawn, the camp was already bustling the next morning as Nesta made her way through the back end of the mountain pass. Cassian was scheduled to visit Swallow’s Ridge at midday, so Nesta had risen early and eaten breakfast alone before walking to meet him in their usual training spot.

It was a bleak, grey sort of day, the sky kissed with the promise of snow and the air so cold Nesta’s breath clouded thick in front of her as she approached the sparring rings. 

The training grounds were not the same as those carved into the rock towards the front of the mountain pass. Instead, an area had been felled of pine trees that was just large enough to construct three large training areas, which were partitioned off by wooden fencing. Unlike the punishing crystalline rock, the ground was soft and open to the elements, a mixture of stone and compact earth that had frozen solid in the cold weather.

Nesta counted twenty girls in the ring as she drew closer — the most Cassian had ever had, he’d informed her over dinner a few nights prior — and whilst some of them looked like they hated every second of it, Nesta noticed Durkhanai and some of the other orphans frowning in concentration as Cassian took them through the guard swings.

At the entrance of the ring, with his arms crossed firmly across his hard and unyielding chest, was Lord Devlon. He was wearing a stern expression, but apart from the odd clipped order he allowed Cassian to lead the session rather than stepping in himself. This did not seem to bother Cassian, who appeared wholly focussed as he walked up and down the training ground, correcting handgrips and stances with a voice that was still General but kinder than when Nesta had heard him barked instructions at the males.

Unlike when Nesta trained, no males had stopped to watch the girls in the ring. Instead, they appeared to avoid the training ground altogether, as if they were purposefully keeping their distance. Nesta was sure there was some pathetic reason for it, but she cast the sneering males to the back of her mind as she deliberately drew to a halt beside the pine fencing a metre from Devlon.

The positioning was purposeful; Nesta was not going to be intimidated by a half-wit bat with a stick up his ass. If Devlon wanted to believe she was a witch, she’d damn well let him.

So drawing up tall, Nesta surveyed Cassian walking up and down the line of girls as they practiced guard swings with wooden swords, and ignored Devlon with blatant disinterest.

The girls attention wavered as they clocked her arrival, and even Cassian stopped correcting a young female’s grip, his wings and nostrils flaring slightly as he scented her on the breeze.

Cassian’s head started to turn but Nesta didn’t have time to meet his gaze, as Devlon cast his dark, cold eyes to rest upon her. 

“Here for training are you,” he grunted. He eyed her hands warily as if he expected mist to be seeping from them.

Nesta twitched her fingers in the hope that he might squirm — just for her satisfaction — and a small, cruel smile twisting her lips upwards. “Yes.”

A begrudging nod. Not a snarl or a sneer. Only, “Mind where you blast that fire.”

Nesta opened her mouth to reply, but then Cassian was in front of her on the other side of the fence. His hair was even more tangled than usual. “I’m nearly finished,” he told Nesta, even though his eyes remained fiercely trained on Devlon. His expression was hard and a muscle in his jaw was already twitching. “Start warming up. Ten laps around the ring.”

Shrugging, Nesta started to jog around the training ground as the girls began to put away their wooden training swords. Durkhanai’s eyes widened as she spotted Nesta, a shy smile flitting across her face.

Nesta saw the orphan most days. Together they helped bathe, dress and feed the younglings to relieve the widows who needed to get down the mountain for work. Durkhanai was quiet but lovely, and after a week of working silently side by side, she started to speak to Nesta, telling her of the death of her mother during the brutal winter last year and her journey to the widows camp, the only place that would take her in. In turn, Nesta had shared a part of herself: her starvation as a human and the death of her own mother.

She did not speak about how she had been Made or about her father’s death. That was something Nesta was still not ready to discuss, let alone face herself.

Sometimes, late at night, Nesta would wake with her face wet with tears, having dreamt of those ships sailing into the midst of battle. How her father had stood at the helm of _Nesta_ , as he looked towards the coastline and his daughters. In that moment, he looked forever young; his hair golden brown rather than grey, his face alight with purpose, his posture tall. The father he had been before their mother died, when Nesta had been his favourite and Feyre had not been forced to the woods so they did not starve.

Feyre. The sister who Nesta might potentially see today, if she willed it.

Originally, Nesta had not even contemplated meeting her sister. Had imagined Feyre standing at the top of the mountain in the freezing cold as she waited for a sister who would not come. But slowly, as three weeks passed, Nesta found herself torn between unbridled fury and curiosity.

Even now, Nesta did not know how to feel. Did not know whether she would face her sister or not. Did not know if she could.

So when she and Cassian trained, Nesta went hard. She ignored the few girls that had stayed behind to watch and Devlon’s beady eyes from his spot at the gates. Instead, Nesta slipped into the rhythm of hand-to-hand combat with an ease that had not come before, her fists and body a blur against the grey landscape.

When she finished her fifth round, a bead of sweat trickled down Cassian’s brow. “Good,” he praised between breaths, and Nesta knew it was deserved. “I felt that kick to the side, sweetheart.”

“Good,” she mirrored, and Cassian barked a laugh. “Maybe you’ll stop going easy on me.”

“I didn’t,” Cassian promised.

A dismissive snort. “You could have pinned me after that upper cut.”

Hazel eyes glowed bright. “I don’t fancy being blasted with silver fire this early in the morning,” Cassian said, even though they both knew why he hadn't pinned her. He stalked to the weapons rack and threw her a longsword, which she effortlessly caught by the handle. “Guards and then combat. Let’s see if you can strike me twice today.”

After their training session, Cassian loitered around the bungalow for longer than he should have. He had bathed first, so Nesta raised an eyebrow at him in surprise as she came out of the bathroom to find him in the living room.

“I thought you were going to Swallow’s Ridge,” Nesta said, her chin lifted as if daring for him to comment that she was wearing nothing but a towel.

The Nesta riddled with alcohol and completely numb would have had no qualms about baring her skin for all the world to see, if only to discover whether it would make her bitter heart feel. But with the potential meeting of her sister on the horizon, Nesta felt splintered and raw.

After failing to illicit comments from Cassian the day of Mor’s visit, Nesta also no longer felt as body confident as she had been. Her failure to draw his attention had only confirmed what she had not wanted to admit: that whilst she had put on weight, the knots in her spine were still too prominent and her thighs were far thinner than they should be, bowing at the tops rather than meeting in the middle. And whilst it wasn’t as if Cassian hadn’t seen more of Nesta’s skin before, today she wasn’t in a place where she could relish in it. If she had known he were still around the house, she would have changed into fresh clothes in the bathroom rather than her room.

Cassian’s nostrils flared and his eyes gleamed for such a short moment that Nesta wondered if it had merely been the fire dancing in his irises. “I might stay and oversee the foot soldiers instead.”

Raising an eyebrow, Nesta tightened the towel around her body. “Why,” she asked shortly. Too shortly. They both knew what today could be, depending on Nesta’s decision. It had been an omen hanging over them that morning as they trained. Cassian had not dared bring it up, and Nesta, who was still too conflicted over her sister’s impending visit, had only set her mouth in thin determination and wielded the longsword after he had thrown it at her, as if it were an extension of herself.

To Cassian’s delight, she had struck him twice. When they had ended, Cassian had vowed that he would start training her with the bow the following day at Spearhead.

Loosing a shrug, Cassian replied, “The rite is in three months. The Windhaven soldiers need as much training as they can get.”

A casual response, but Nesta was not fooled.

She reset her posture, her eyes narrowing in a way that usually had other’s running. “Do it tomorrow.”

Cassian cocked his head and those hazel eyes tunnelled into her with such intensity that Nesta wanted to look away. She didn’t let herself give in to the temptation, staring him down with the sort of unveiled threat that promised she’d make his life hell if he dared defy her.

Eventually, Cassian just shrugged, his broad wings shifting with the movement. He ruffled them, spreading them quickly before tucking them back in. It was a signature move of his when he was uncomfortable. “I’ll be back at dusk. I’ll see you for dinner?”

A careful question designed to ensure that Nesta didn’t intend to retreat into herself should she meet with Feyre. Cassian was worried, Nesta realised, fiercely so, the sensation escaping the walls he had constructed after Kamanam and lining her stomach with the scent of pine and musk and untamed air.

It had been a while since Nesta had been left feeling fully numb. It was a feat that hadn’t escaped her. Clearly, it hadn’t escaped Cassian either, and he wanted the reassurance that meeting with her sister wasn’t going to make her suffer, even though they both knew it didn’t work that way.

For once though, Nesta did hope that the numbness wouldn’t take a hold of her. The sensation felt odd — hope — but it was there, a flicker in the dark. And the thought of coming back to the bungalow later to eat in the kitchen with Cassian… the image was warm and inviting. Nesta could see the orange glow of faelight around the kitchen window, could imagine her feet crunching on snow and ice as she trekked her way back, could taste the spices on her tongue as she bit into the food he would prepare for her…

So Nesta said, “That depends on what you’re making.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “What would you like, sweetheart?”

Nesta shrugged, as if she were wholly uncaring, even as it felt as if someone had clenched a fist in her chest. “Dosas,” she said, tossing the word over her shoulder as she turned on her heel to head into the bedroom.

A low chuckle made her stomach twist and flip, but she did not look back at him, even though she knew his eyes had darkened and flared simultaneously.

Despite the distance, Nesta felt Cassian’s laugh rumble through her, like a flame licking down to her core. “Dosas it is.”

* * *

Once she had dressed, Nesta left her bedroom with the intention of making her way to the widows camp. To her fury, she found that Cassian had still not left. He was waiting by the door, her headband in his outstretched hand. Her coat remained hanging from its hook, as if he had anticipated that she would emerge in clean leathers rather than an Illyrian dress.

When he informed her that he planned to walk her to the bottom of the mountain, Nesta snatched the headband from his hands and stormed out of the door with a furious hiss that had him grinning.

Yet... Nesta allowed him to follow her. Knew his cocky grin was just for show. Knew that he wouldn’t voice what they both knew: that somehow his presence had a calming effect on her, smoothing over the gravitas of what could or couldn’t happen in a few hours time.

Cassian opened his mouth a number of times during the walk, but eventually he chose to remain silent. Only when they arrived at the base of the mountain did he surprise her, conversing quickly with the guards in sharp Illyrian before stepping onto the treacherous path with her, rather than shooting into the skies.

Nesta’s scathing look did nothing to stop him in his tracks, and it was only when they made the first brutal turn that he spoke. “You don’t have to see your sister today if you don’t want to.”

Nesta scowled, angry at Cassian for bringing up Feyre when she had intended to cast her to the back of her mind whilst she still could. Her entire body stiffened but she did not turn to him, knowing somehow, that he wanted eye contact from her — hazel on blue.

She kept on walking; one foot in front of the other, her fur-lined boots crunching loose rock beneath her feet. “I am fully aware of what I can and cannot do.”

Her delivery was pointed enough to wound, but Cassian did not flinch. He stopped, reaching for her, his fingers closing around her wrist. “I meant what I said to you the other day, Nesta. You shouldn’t see your sister if you don’t think it’s best for you right now.”

Silence followed as heat licked through Nesta’s veins, her power slithering like a serpent through a dark tunnel.

When Cassian spoke next, his voice was low — a confession, “I fucked up before. I was so angry at you for ignoring me that I didn’t try to see things from your perspective. So I’m going to tell you again what I think you need to hear: only do this for you. Don’t do this for Feyre. If it feels right to meet your sister, meet her. If your gut tells you it is wrong, follow that feeling.”

Nesta nearly snorted in dismissal, but she quashed the sound before it could escape, remembering the look on Cassian’s face that night of Solstice, when she had treated him as if he weren’t worthy enough to even reject.

Instead, she said frostily, “I don’t need your support.”

Something flickered behind Cassian’s eyes. “I know,” he admitted, “but I want you to know that you have it, if you do want it.” His grip tightened around her wrist, his touch warm and too packed with meaning. “Sometimes we need distance to figure out what we need, Nesta.”

His gaze was too intense, so Nesta threw his words back at him as she scrabbled to keep her expression neutral. “And what do you need.”

A shake of the head had Cassian’s wind-snarled hair moving. “I don’t need anything from you," he confessed. "Recently there’s a spark of life in you that wasn’t there before. I don’t want to see it go out.”

Nesta’s windpipe tightened and she sucked in a breath as she purposefully slid her eyes away from him to the frost-kissed landscape; to the snow-capped pine trees, the canvas tents and the shadowed blurs of leather and steel.

“I’m not the same girl who was forced into the Cauldron,” Nesta said.

It was true. Nesta was not who she had been. The Cauldron and the war had remoulded her body and self until she was recognisably different: harder around the edges, broken in the middle. A jumble of revenge and anger and grief and hatred. Emotions that she tried in vein to trap in ice to stop herself from self-combusting.

As if he could tell what she was thinking, Cassian’s fingers moved from her wrist to squeeze her fingers.

“No,” Cassian agreed softly, “but I like who you have become, all the same.” With his other hand, he reached up to brush his thumb lightly over the arch of her cheekbone.

The initiated contact surprised Nesta so much that she did not have the time to order herself to flinch.

“I’ll see you later,” Cassian said, after he had stared into her eyes for a little too long. “If you need me, get one of the guards to send a messenger to Swallow’s Ridge. I’ll come back.”

They both knew Nesta would not ask for him, but she nodded to indicate that she had heard before he shot into the sky. Nesta watched him until he faded into the clouds, his dark wings merging with grey…

A flash of ruby flared like lightning, and then he was gone.

The weather was moody — Nesta’s favourite — and the rolling white and smoke clouds made her emotions spark in a way that she found comforting as she continued up the path. Despite her initial hesitancy, Nesta had learnt that for the most part, it was better to feel than to feel nothing at all. And now… all she could feel was where Cassian’s calloused thumb had brushed over her skin. She wondered if the bastard had done it on purpose to distract her — to make her feel when now was a time when she’d usually retreat into herself.

It irritated her beyond belief that it worked, but it irked her more that she wanted him to do it again.

Females dipped their heads at Nesta in greeting as she submerged herself into the bustling widows camp. Nesta nodded back at them, and when she found the least battered tent at the East side of the camp, Nesta rapped her knuckled on the canvas to alert Mas to her arrival before she ducked quickly inside. The housekeeper’s face lit up at the sight of her. Mas had been winding a thick scarf around Roksana’s neck, but she stopped the task to take Nesta’s face in her hands and plant two quick kisses on each cheek before she hurried off to help the other females in the makeshift kitchens.

“Tiya, sunt tibi beni?” Nesta asked Roksana when they were alone, smoothing a hand over the girl’s tangled hair before she continued to wind the scarf around the youngling. 

Roksana did not reply, she only wrapped her arms around Nesta’s legs in a hug that warmed Nesta’s blood.

It was a recent development that Nesta had taken to greeting Roksana in Illyrian, hoping to coax out some words in her in her native tongue. It hadn’t worked yet, but the way in which Roksana’s eyes had lit up the first time Nesta had tried to sound out the language, had left Nesta determined to persist, even if she continued to come up empty.

The chores in the widows camp were never-ending. Tuesdays were many of the females day off and so the camp was far busier than usual. Nesta helped to feed and clothe the orphans with Durkhanai at the Eastern side of the camp, before urging the younglings to warm their wings and frozen limbs by the campfire.

Some of the older widows, including Mas, had come to settle by the fire as well, in order to keep an eye on the younglings whilst they weaved beautiful fabric together with needle and thread. Braving the fire, Nesta settled with Roksana against her side and recounted a few stories, until the spitting became too much and the sun was high in the sky.

Then, without thinking, Nesta stood. She ran a hand over Roksana’s hair and bid Mas goodbye, before heading to the path that traversed up the mountain to the summit at the Western point of the camp. She ignored the way in which Mas had watched her go, her expression concerned to the point of troubled. There was no way in which Mas could know what Nesta was about to do — Nesta had not told anyone about her potential meeting with her sister — but Mas had come to learn her moods just as Cassian had.

If Nesta was more forthcoming about herself, she might have asked Mas’s advice, but instead Nesta continued to move on instinct — on the pull that was drawing her legs to climb up, up, up until the path flattened out.

She saw Feyre as soon as she reached the peak. It was not hard to spot her. She was standing at the precipice, staring down at the widows camp below. Despite the long braid that had woven her sister’s golden brown hair into three strands, the fierce wind carried it behind her, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the slight upwards slant to her eyes. Her long, elegant figure was swept up in the finest fur-lined leathers, as if she too had unwittingly dressed to expect a battle. Or, Nesta thought grimly, the clothing that her mate had insisted she wear, knowing that her sister was not only braving the Illyrian weather but her thorny, quarrelsome sister.

Nesta had just noted the sword strapped to her spine, when Feyre turned and noticed her.

There was a pregnant pause as eyes near identical to her own took in Nesta’s figure: her frost-kissed skin rather than sunken cheeks; the loose braid rather than the tight crown; the figure-hugging leathers rather than the drab, over-sized dresses. A far cry to when Feyre had seen her last, Nesta could admit that much.

“You came,” Feyre said eventually.

Nesta angled her chin, ready to spar.

“I come here every morning,” she replied coldly. “I’d assume that’s why you were advised to suggest here as a meeting point.”

There was no added insult for Cassian. No bat, no bastard, no scathing _him_. Even so, Nesta couldn’t bring herself to say his name. It felt too intimate — too much of a giveaway that she no longer hated him with such raging intensity she wanted to shatter things. 

That was not to say that Cassian did not make her want to break things now… He did, but it was rarely from anger. Rather, it was in the way that he would look at her — in the way that no one else dared — as if she were wholly unbreakable and he had no qualms about closing the distance and pinning her between a wall and the muscled cords of his body.

The tension was rising between them — it had been for a while — and it hung thick and heavy in the air, so much so that at times Nesta found it hard to breathe.

And the worst thing was that Nesta felt herself giving in; melting into the temptation and scent of him, even when she knew that every sensation he pulled from her was a veiled disguise. An illusion. Not of choice but of a decision already made, whereby they were both playing out what was destined for them.

Yet, despite that knowledge, Nesta couldn’t deny that the thought of Cassian speaking of her to the Inner Circle opened the fetid wound that had been falsely healing inside of her. It seeped ruby through the cracks in her wall of ice, like blood tainting the purest snow.

In Nesta’s mouth, she tasted copper.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Feyre repeated, her voice disbelieving as she shook her head.

“I can leave as quickly as I came,” Nesta threatened, her face stony and impenetrable.

To her surprise, Feyre didn’t retaliate or sigh. She only looked down at the view in the fearless way anyone with wings could on a deadly precipice.

“That rock looks like a tombstone,” Feyre observed.

Nesta did not move from her position at the top of the path. Instead, she remained rooted to the spot in case she decided to make a quick exit. Nesta suspected that moment might come sooner than later. Already she felt rubbed raw, her hackles raised, her body primed to fight, yet she kept her face impassive as she followed her sister’s gaze.

Far above them, three warriors flew across the sky. Their bodies were black dots against the grey backdrop, and Nesta watched silver glint off one of them as a gap between the clouds exposed the sun’s rays. Nesta wished she was with them rather than here. Maybe Cassian was right, she was not ready for this. She was not ready to face the ghosts that haunted her… the ghosts that Feyre unwittingly brought with her.

“It’s the widows camp,” Nesta told Feyre coldly, trying to swallow down the urge to run.

Feyre cut a sideways glance at her. “You were there this morning?”

Nesta rose her chin. “Are you asking me that because you’ve been spying on me or because your faithful informant has been telling you how I spend my day?”

Feyre blew out a breath that Nesta dissected as a method of steadying the rising temper they both shared. “I arrived early. Cassian doesn’t like to speak of you to me.”

Surprise flared inside of Nesta so sharp that for a second she couldn’t breathe. She had always thought Cassian loyal to Feyre first and foremost. Had always thought he would choose his High Lady over her lowly, cruel sister, despite the things he had said that had insinuated otherwise.

But Nesta kept her expression blank as she asked, “And I suppose that makes you angry?”

The way Feyre shook her head was tormented. “No, he — it has made me realise some truths — of how I have failed you, Nesta.”

The concession was not packaged how Nesta had been expecting it, so she did not speak. Feyre had turned to look at her. Her irises were the exact same as Nesta’s own, yet not half as steely. Out of the three of them, she and Feyre were the most similar; both in looks and personality.

Nobody was as lovely as Elain, she and Feyre had learnt that long ago.

Just once, Feyre rang her hands before they fell uselessly at her sides. It betrayed her as nervous. 

“I don’t know if I ever told you the full story of what happened to me Under the Mountain,” Feyre started. She tore her gaze from Nesta’s to stare out at the sky. “Afterwards, I… things were very difficult. I had nightmares every night of those I had killed and I couldn’t keep any food down. I barely slept and I felt heavy all of the time, as if I were wading through mud. I hated being confined so much so that when Tamlin locked me in the house the Night Court saved me because I threw the entirety of it into darkness. Even once I was in Velaris, there was no light, only dark, and I could barely feel… Sometimes I went days of feeling nothing and I had this... power inside of me that I didn’t know how to use.”

Feyre turned back to look at Nesta. Her expression was grave, as if she were tunnelling too far into herself, into a part of her that she did not like to bring back to the surface.

Nesta had seen the look many times before, in the reflection of Cassian and Mas’s eyes, as they stared concernedly at her.

“I’m not telling you this with the intention of making you feel sorry for me,” Feyre said quietly. She had stepped closer to Nesta without realising. Nesta had been too preoccupied with that haunted look. “The reason I’m telling you this is because despite everything I went through and the people who helped me, I didn’t truly stop to realise that you were going through something similar after the war. I should have seen what was happening with you, Nesta, and tried to truly understand what you needed, but I didn’t. I could try to better myself by saying that everything was so busy during and after the war that I was too distracted, but really that’s just an excuse for my behaviour. I thought Illyria would give you a change of scenery away from…everything.”

Nesta’s snort was harsh. “You thought to throw me into a war camp so I could escape the memory of what happened in the war?”

Feyre’s wince was visible and Nesta watched her sister pinch the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t—” Feyre started, but then she trailed off with a shake of her head, as if she wished to start again. “Nesta, I’m sorry for sending you here. I was so worried that you would destroy yourself and so I did something drastic—”

“I am not yours to control,” Nesta snarled. “You summoned me like I was dirt on the bottom of your shoe. You banished me in front of half of your precious Inner Circle with no regard to how I was suffering. You humiliated me not as my sister but as High Lady and that is unforgivable.”

Fire raged inside of Nesta at the memory, so bright that she knew mist was seeping threateningly from her fingers. Feyre cast an alarmed look to her hands as Nesta stepped closer, as if she were expecting her sister to blast her off the mountain.

“You say you don’t like small spaces,” Nesta continued with quiet fervour. “Have you considered what it is like for me? To be banished somewhere where I cannot fly away? Have you considered that I too was trapped when I was kidnapped and thrown into a Cauldron to be remade against my will? And when I told you I could not bare to sit in the tub — when I gave you a piece of myself — you did not truly listen. Instead you trapped me into another life that has been chosen for me.”

Another step forwards, so close that Nesta could feel the warmth coming from her sister’s skin. “I am sorry for what you endured Under the Mountain. I am sorry for making your life miserable when we were younger, but I am not sorry for how I chose to deal with my trauma.”

Feyre’s skin turned so pale her freckles looked like they had been painted on with the tip of a paintbrush. “Nesta—”

But Nesta was not finished. Now she had started, she couldn’t stop. The words poured forth as easily as fire wanted to flow from her fingertips. “Have you considered that I have never had control over any aspect of my life — that I have always been told what to do and how to behave?”

That fateful finger was out now, stabbing the air between them. Feyre took a step backwards as if Nesta had prodded her in the chest. Silver sparked in the air between them, a promise of what would undoubtedly come.

“I fought in the war,” Nesta continued with quiet fury. “I killed the King and changed the course of history. I tried to show you that I was sorry for how I had treated you through my actions. I tried to earn forgiveness, to try and make up for what I had done wrong. Yet you and your mate did not see my actions as worthy. And when I told you I did not want to be controlled by you, you banished me somewhere with somebody I could not stand to be around, as if I wasn’t your sister but a troublesome subject.”

Taking that final step, Nesta closed the distance between she and Feyre. Feyre did not back away again. Instead, Nesta watched a tear roll down Feyre’s cheek with a chilled sort of fury, and with quiet fervour, said, “Well, I have news for you, sister. I am untameable and I do not answer to anybody but myself.”

Horror coursed through Nesta’s insides, the sensation interwoven with the scent of lilac and pear. Feyre’s hands came to cover her face and a sob coursed through the mountain landscape, so sharp it was as if it were her sister’s last breath. “I didn’t want you to die. I thought you were going to drink yourself to death, Nesta. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Seeing her sister cry hurt, but being understood hurt more. So Nesta ploughed on; the words escaping as if they had been scrabbling to get out for a long, long time, “You once asked me why I pushed everyone away but Elain — why I pushed you away. Well, here’s your answer High Lady: you never needed me. I lost you long ago, as soon as mother told you that I was unsuitable to look out for my younger sisters and that you were the only one up for the task.”

Nesta hadn’t thought it possible for Feyre to turn paler, but she had. Her skin looked as if it had been leeched of life. As Nesta said the words, she knew they were unfair. Her younger self had projected anger onto Feyre rather than taint the dying mother who Nesta had always tried so hard to please.

A silence stretched out between them that was so taut and angry, Nesta had to resist the urge to throw her hands to the sky until it was burning mercury. Instead, she kept her power inside, wanting to feel the ferocious thrum of it in her blood, at the pulse in her neck which was hammering as if it were trying to escape.

“Is that why—” Feyre started, but a sound had Nesta throwing up a finger to stop her, because she had heard something on the wind which had made her blood freeze.

For a moment… nothing. Then on the wind came familiar, high pitched laughter that sent chills down Nesta’s spine. It was a sound that she had hoped to never hear again, yet it was unmistakable — clear as day.

“No,” Nesta breathed, whirling round to stare down the mountain path. Through the misty clouds, Nesta could make out nothing but the dark shape of the tombstone, but she knew that sound. She would never forget that sound, not as long as she lived.

“What is it?” Feyre demanded.

“Be quiet,” Nesta snapped.

Laughter came again. It skittered up the craggy rock, followed by snarling and snapping teeth.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Nesta moaned, running to ledge that Feyre had been standing at previously, which gave an unhindered view of the widows camp. And through the foggy clouds, Nesta saw them. Sloping four-legged figures on the western perimeter of the widows camp, slinking through the shadows. Too many of them. Nesta had no idea how they had gotten there, why they would have ventured somewhere so populated…

“What is it?” Feyre demanded again, running to Nesta’s side so she too could look over the mountain. “Oh Gods,” Feyre breathed. “The females. The children. Nesta, what are they—”

But Nesta was not listening. She was running before she had time to think, her feet digging into the stone as she tore her way to the mountain path that zagged its way down to the widows camp.

“Move,” she barked over her shoulder. The command was biting but Feyre did not hesitate, tearing after her sister as if it were second nature.

Nesta had only reached the first bend with Feyre hot on her heels when the first scream pierced through the clouds. Power leapt within Nesta, and then her mind went loose as it went taut… as Nesta reached within herself, into her veins where that magic hummed hello… ready. And Nesta did not push it away. Instead, she brushed against it in greeting, just as she had done when she had worn Cassian’s siphon, in the moment before she bended it to her will. And then her fingers were curling around the pommel of a longsword made entirely of breathing, silver flame.

She clutched on to it, the weapon so much an extension of herself that she did not have to worry about it falling from her grasp. The rest of the descent passed in a blur of moving rock, as she and Feyre skidded on loose stone and slushy ice, and the screams… they kept coming. Again and again. Panic and terror so palpable they pierced through Nesta’s emotional shields, each agonised sound stabbing through her, her power leaping to meet it, pushing beneath her skin, desperate to get out…

Together, she and Feyre plunged into the fray. Crowds of female were stampeding towards them, desperate to get to safety, to reach the only path that led down to the safety of the main camp. 

And amongst them… kerits. So many of them chittering and snarling, their long, pointed teeth snapping and tearing as they leapt at the defenceless females with the intent of feasting on their flesh. Nesta slashed at them with her sword, fire sizzling through fur and flesh, her body moving independently of her brain as it fell into a killing dance. 

Feyre had not drawn her sword from her back, instead she wielded ice from her palms, and spears of it wove their way through the air like arrowheads, plunging themselves into moving bodies of spotted fur. Nesta just had time to see the body of a kerit slump to the floor, its body impaled by ice, to reveal a female cowering against the canvas of her tent. The female’s face was ashen and disbelieving as she stared at the sloping bodies that had fallen before her at the will of Feyre’s magic. At the trail of limbs and guts scattered around her, belonging to the female who they had not been in time to save… But then another kerit was leaping at Nesta, and Nesta did not have time to think, only react as she plunged her sword into it’s belly. It fell by her feet with a sharp cry, black blood spilling on the rocky ground. Nesta did not pause to consider the bloodshed or how her feet slipped in it as she continued to run, she only raised her free hand to the sky again, desperately blazing silver into the clouds, hoping that it would be enough to alert the camp below of the attack. 

Already Nesta knew that there were too many kerits for she and Feyre to fight off themselves… Already there had been casualties. And still, the orphans were huddled at the Eastern-point of the camp with nobody to protect them…

It was that thought that had Nesta pressing on. Kerits leapt at she and Feyre before they realised that they had chosen the wrong pray, and Nesta sliced and jabbed with her fire-breathing steel, relishing in the beasts dying screams and savouring the sobs of the widows, which brought solace in the knowledge that they were alive and momentarily safe.

All went eerily quiet as Nesta and Feyre reached the towering tomb of rock and the makeshift canteen surrounding it. The stampede of females had petered out, and Nesta hoped it was because most of them had managed to escape down the mountain pass, rather than because they had fallen victims to the kerits. Her gut twisted at the thought… as she thought of Mas, Roksana and the other orphans who had been tucked away against the mountain wall at the Eastern side of the camp… a dead end. 

If the kerits had managed to corner them… it would be a massacre.

Another lurch of her stomach as Nesta surveyed the benches and tables that had been strewn across the stone floor. Beside one of the upturned benches lay the twisted body of the elderly cook with crooked teeth — the female who insisted on feeding Nesta each morning, even when Nesta told her that she had already eaten breakfast. The cook’s tan skin was covered in claw and tooth marks, her body bloody and brutalised in such a horrific way that Nesta knew there was not a glimmer of life left in the female.

It must have been a horrible way to die.

Biting back a sob, Nesta closed her fingers around her sister’s arm, needing Feyre to understand that in this moment, she did not care if she died; she only cared that she could protect the defenceless females before she fell.

“The orphans,” Nesta urged to Feyre, pointing towards the Eastern side of the camp and the screams that were being tossed away on the wind. “They’re at the East side of the camp. There’s no way out.”

Nesta did not dare say the name Roksana or Mas. Could not voice what she was terrified of… That something could have already happened to the Illyrian’s she had come to care for so deeply.

Nesta tried to push away the thought of how Roksana had clung to her that morning… of how her small fingers had grabbed onto her legs in a clumsy hug. Nesta tried not to think about how Mas had kissed her in greeting; her weathered palm patting lightly against Nesta’s cheek in that motherly way of hers that always made her feel unconditionally accepted and loved.

The boom of wings sounded across the mountain pass, and then different coloured lights started to flash as siphons were willed into action, warriors finally landing in the camp to fight off the beasts. Nesta spotted Ragar and his friends, Devlon, guards on patrol, but then Feyre’s hands came to rest on her arms, pulling her attention away.

Nesta stared at her sister — at the white face streaked with blood which was set in grim determination, even as they heard the rising screams.

“Let’s go,” Feyre said, those two words sparking more respect in Nesta than any of their tense exchange at the top of the mountain.

And then they were running again, both of them throwing magic from their palms, taking out a gang of kerits who had leapt between the tents. Nesta swung her longsword of silver fire with her left-hand just as a kerit jumped in front of Feyre, attacking from seemed like nowhere.

Black blood streaked hot across Nesta’s face as her sword sizzled through muscle and sinew, but she ignored the wailing screams of the dying beast, turning only to make sure her sister was alive and unharmed. 

Feyre’s eyes were wide, her heartbeat as frantic as a hummingbird in Nesta’s ears. “Thanks,” Feyre breathed, panting desperately for breath. Then she pointed to the direction they had been heading — to the Eastern-most point where Nesta had left Roksana and Mas that morning. “There are lots of warriors up ahead.”

Together they dodged the crowds and beams of coloured light. To Nesta’s relief, the huddled figures on the floor seemed to mainly consist of spotted fur, the Illyrian males clearly having arrived in time to prevent a massacre. But still Nesta ran, not realising how her lungs were heaving for breath or the burn in her thighs as she weaved through lifeless bodies and crying females, heading towards the smoke that wafted up from the dying camp fire — the place she had left Roksana and Mas what felt like mere minutes ago.

It was not how she had left it.

In front of her, metres before the campfire, lay Durkhanai’s bloody body. Her eyes were open and unseeing, her pupils green and mesmerising even in death… her spirit already well departed from the world. And a foot away from her…

“No.” 

The sound that tore from Nesta was agony. It ripped from her chest — from deep, deep inside that locked cage as it cracked.

Nesta’s boots slipped through guts and gore, but she did not care. In her periphery, Nesta saw limbs and the unseeing eyes of the females who had flung themselves in the paths of the beasts, as if they had willingly lay themselves on the pyre to put the lives of the orphans before themselves.

Nesta did not feel the blinding pain that should have splintered through her as she fell to her knees on the grey rock. Because in front of her was Mas. She was lying on the floor and her wings — her scarred and battered wings — were in tatters. Her stomach was oozing with blood, deep claw marks raked through raw flesh.

And beside her was Roksana, her face and clothes covered in bright scarlet blood. Her small, precious hands buried deep in Mas’s gut, holding in the punctured intestines that were trailing out of her body; as if they had been dragged out by long, pointed teeth…

The little girl stared up at Nesta, her dark eyes blown wide in shock. Around them, the anguished cries and screams of agony went quiet, Nesta’s ears drowning out all noise but the croak that came from the youngling’s mouth. “Help,” she said, those little hands sliding on intestines and blood as it leaked through her fingers. “Help.”

“No,” Nesta repeated again, the word cracking out of her as she surveyed the damage that was too severe for an Illyrian to remedy. “No, no, no.”

Her hands slipped in hot blood as she pressed her own palms over Mas’s gaping wounds. The housekeeper’s breath rattled, the sound terrible and wringing with what Nesta knew was unimaginable pain. Mas’s face was grey — as if already it had been drained of life; as if the end had been written and there was no avoiding it.

Fingers grasped at Nesta’s but the Illyrian’s eyes did not open, even as her eyelids flickered — the movement asking too much of her body. They slipped against Nesta’s as they moved through her own ruby blood.

“You will not die,” Nesta told Mas fiercely, her eyesight blinded by tears. A silver tear rolled down Nesta’s cheek and fell onto their clasped hands… into the open, gaping wound. “You will not. Do you hear me?”

Only silence answered as Mas’s body went slack. Her chest rattling one last time before it stopped moving all together.

When the housekeeper’s fingers fell away from Nesta’s own, everything went still.

“Nesta.”

A hand was on her shoulder — Feyre — but Nesta did not feel or care for it. Someone had pulled Roksana away into the safety of their arms — away from the dead body with its departing soul. Deep inside of Nesta, the scent of roasted chestnuts and wood shavings began to fade, as if it had been caught in the wind and was about to be tossed away.

“No.”

That same word again, but this time it came with weight behind it. Defiance. Anger. Heartbreak. All her own, and yet piling on top of that, layer by layer, was every painful emotion and memory of loss that had been imprinted on the stone over the years, from the widows that had come before and had suffered unimaginably.

Something turned inside of Nesta, her magic flipping as if someone had turned a key in a lock to reveal not silver but white… A pure, snow white light that seeped from her fingertips, singing with gentle promise rather than destruction.

“No,” Nesta said.

That word again, but this time deadly calm.

Still.

_Who do you want to be, Nesta?_

Cassian’s words from the day before sounded in her head. At the time she had not known the answer, but now, her path had never been clearer.

Raising her steady blood-stained hands to hover over Mas’s wounds, Nesta let that icy wall protecting her emotions fall away inside of her. It crashed down around her like a dam whose gates had been opened, her emotions running like rampant and wild rapids, rushing into her blood and down strands of interwoven rope. Her power vibrated with a controlled energy and then that white light glowed, shining from her palms.

It was so bright that Nesta had to close her eyes to protect herself from the sheer brilliance of her power as it poured forth.

She did not need to look at Mas’s body to bear witness to her healing. Did not need to watch the housekeeper’s wounds knit themselves back together, as if someone were turning back time in slow motion.

She just knew.

And in that moment, Nesta also knew exactly who she was supposed to be, even as her body started to hurt.

Two weaving components, bound together as surely as a rope plaited with two complementing strands.

Protector.

Healer.

That was who Nesta was.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday everyoneeee! I say this every week, but I've never had so many comments for the last chapter. I know it was an emotional one, and I'm sorry for all of you who say they shed a tear, but hopefully the slight fluff in this chapter will help to soothe over the hurt...
> 
> As usual, I'll be posting a teaser for next week's chapter on Wednesday on my Tumblr. You can find me @duskandstarlight.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter Twenty-Three  
** **Cassian**

He hadn’t wanted to leave Nesta. 

Cassian had known it as soon as he had woken that morning; dread lining his stomach, the sensation as heavy as lead.

That knowledge had grown as they trained in the sparring ring, Nesta deathly silent as she fought with an intensity that almost left him reeling. 

He knew it as they walked home: as she disappeared into the bathroom; as he loitered around the house stalling his departure…

Something in his bones had told him to stay, even as she had told him to go. He had followed her to the bottom of the mountain, forcing himself to stay quiet lest he ruin the progress they had made. 

Until he had broken, of course… 

Words he would once have never dared say to her poured forth. And then he’d touched her again. He needed to stop doing it, he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. His blood had leapt in his veins at the touch, as if it were trying to burst through his skin… to go where he did not know. 

Afterwards, as he tracked through the endless grey snow clouds, all Cassian truly saw was the way Nesta’s lips had parted in surprise. A few mere months ago her entire body would have recoiled from him, as if his touch disgusted her. But like the previous time, after the attack from the kerits, Nesta had only stilled. Not spat. Not batted him away. Only stared at him, as if his touch had made everything go quiet. 

It wasn’t just the potential meeting with Feyre that Cassian was concerned about, but everything that came with it. If Nesta decided to meet her sister, Cassian had no doubt that there would be repercussions, the biggest being Nesta retreating into herself. With that came more consequences: a lack of eating, battle trauma, panic attacks and loss of control, to name a few. Cassian’s worry had been so palpable that he'd given up on trying to stifle it and he knew that Nesta had sensed it. It was what had resulted in her snapping at him to leave the house, even after he had promised her dosas — her favourite Illyrian dish.

So with all of that in mind, it was miraculous that Cassian made it an hour into his flight to Swallow’s Ridge before he realised the true gravity of his mistake. Because whilst Nesta may have pushed everyone away after the war, what she had really wanted was for someone to stay and fight for her. And now… he was leaving. Again.

With a long stream of curses, Cassian banked sharply to the left. 

Once he’d taken a complete U-turn, he followed the wind that moaned her name, all the way back to Windhaven.

* * *

The mountain pass had just come into sight when it hit him: emotion beyond his wildest reckoning. Panic and fear assaulted him with such ferocity that Cassian dropped, a dead weight in the skies, his hands flying to his ribcage as if he could hold in the pain that wanted to burst forth. It took him a few seconds of free falling before he managed to shudder for breath, and an even longer moment for his brain to kick into gear. He threw his wings out wide, his muscles screaming against the force of the wind as he readied his body in the sky. 

Siphons flaring, Cassian tried to swallow down his panic just as the scent of her filled his lungs — jasmine and vanilla — rising above the smell of blood and shit and death.

And Cassian knew even though it should not be possible, as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow, exactly where Nesta was as he sped through the sky with impossible speed to the widows camp.

Screams and the flash of steel filled the air as he landed with a thud amongst the tents that made up the Eastern side of the camp. Siphons flaring, Cassian started running just as a sword appeared in his hands, the steel encrusted with a ruby light that gleamed with the promise of bloodshed. Warriors were already on the terrain, steel arcing through the air as they gutted and slashed the remaining kerits. Around him, Cassian could hear sobbing females and the sight of hollow, stricken faces splattered with blood. Some warriors were using their magic to patch up the severely injured, jewelled light flaring amongst the grey terrain. Yet Cassian did not stop. Instead, he allowed his legs to lead him to where he needed to be, giving in to the force that always tugged at him towards Nesta, as if their power were magnets undeniably and inexplicably drawn to the other.

His heart all but stopped when he spied a crowd of females, orphans and warriors at the Eastern-most point. 

Crowds were never good he had learnt, it meant there was something worth witnessing. 

Nesta’s name left his lips without realising he had done it, the word pouring forth again and again and again until his throat was raw; “ _Nesta. Nesta. Nesta.”_

The low depth of his voice had bodies jumping to the side, until _finally_ he heard his name. “ _Cassian_.”

It was not the voice he had wanted to hear, but relief flooded him all the same as Feyre’s terrified face swam into view. Her slim fingers closed around his arms as he gave her a quick once over to check she was in one piece. She was covered in black blood as thick as tar but otherwise appeared unharmed. 

She was in the middle of the crowd and when his eyes slid past her to the figure on the floor and the familiar, leather clad female beside her, Feyre’s grasp tightened on him, as if she might be the one that needed to hold him up.

“I can’t get her to stop,” Feyre said. Her voice was muffled — distant — as Cassian pushed his High Lady aside. Feyre did not seem bothered, she only followed him with a wild sort of panic he had only witnessed from her when Rhys had died in front of their eyes. “Nesta brought the widow back to life. She healed her injuries with her magic but now she won’t stop. She’s not responding to anything and her nose is bleeding…”

Cassian wasn’t sure if Feyre trailed off or if he just stopped hearing. Everything froze inside of him as his eyes took in Mas on the ground. Her wings were splayed wide beneath her twisted body but her chest… it was moving, even though she was lying in a pool of blood; the colour bright and glistening against the grey stone. 

And knelt beside her, her slim, shaking hands suspended over Mas’s body, was Nesta.

White, radiant light poured from her palms — healing power that sung with overwhelming brilliance — but through the fog clouding his brain, Cassian knew something was deathly wrong. His siphons knew it too — they blinked, ready to rally his power, as if they too sensed the healing magic that shone from Nesta’s palms straight down onto Mas’s bloody body.

“She won’t stop.” Feyre’s voice tuned back into his ears with a high-pitched ringing sound. “It’s killing her.”

Feyre moved as if she were about to shake her sister, but Cassian’s hand moved of its own accord. “No,” he ordered, knowing somehow that it wouldn’t work — that it would be dangerous to summon Nesta out of the trance she had fallen into.

He forced himself to remain calm as he studied his equal. Her skin was deathly pale, a trickle of fresh blood dropping from her nose and onto the red-soaked stone… as if she were mustering the last of her strength into that pure, magnificent light that sung of devotion rather than the promise of death.

Cassian could feel Nesta exhaustion as surely as he could sense his own, the sensation threatening to pull them both down as his siphons winked in warning. He felt as if he had been wrung out to dry, his magic on its last legs as he said, “ _Nesta_.”

Blood seeped through his layers as he dropped to his knees beside her. He did not feel the way his kneecaps collided with rock, even though he would find twin bruises on his kneecaps later that evening.

“ _Nesta_.” 

Her name left his lips again as if it were sacred. Inside of him, something flickered. Slowly, he held a palm up to cup her face, even as the terror that had clamped down inside of him wanted to shake her until she woke up. More blood trickled from her nose, down her lips and chin before it started to make its way down his wrist. Nesta’s body shuddered in response, as if it knew she couldn’t give anything more — that her magic was dying out, and with it, her. 

In the background, Cassian heard a youngling start to cry — Roksana. The sound twisted as sharp as a knife. 

“Sweetheart, you did it. Mas is breathing. You can stop now,” he said hoarsely. Desperately. “You don’t need to give any more of yourself. It’s ok. You can stop.”

Light sputtered at Nesta’s palms, as if her focus had been pulled away for a fraction of a moment. A part of Cassian chastised his habit for assuming that he could bring her back, even though he wasn’t so sure he was wrong. 

Pouncing at the respite in her power, Cassian dared to take a glowing hand in his. Her fingers were ice cold as he placed it to his chest. His heart was thumping hard and his breath heaved from his lungs as if it were his last. He knew somehow that Nesta could feel it — that it would ground her — just as it had the other day. 

Nesta’s eyes opened with a terrifying snap. They connected with his for the briefest of moments — mercury on hazel — before they rolled back into her head. 

And as if someone had cut a cord loose in her spine, Nesta collapsed like a puppet on a string.

Cassian caught her, rearranging her body into his arms with an urgency that he did not usually let himself show. But he was undone. He did not have time to arrange himself or decide how to behave. He was no longer the general of the Night Court, he was just a male watching his life disappear.

Nesta’s long hair had come free of her braid and the red of Mas’s blood seeped into the golden strands. The image burned behind his retinas as he begged, “ _Sweetheart_.” 

Cassian dragged a thumb across the arch of Nesta’s cheekbone — just as he done earlier when she was healthy and well. Now, Nesta’s skin was ice to the touch rather than warm. “ _Nesta,_ ” he implored.

Wildly, he tried to scan Nesta’s body with his magic, just as Feyre fell to her knees beside him. 

He imagined the grey-blue eyes that were wide with panic were a mirror of his own. 

“I can’t patch her up,” Cassian told Feyre with a look that was wholly unhinged. His voice was rising with panic but he didn’t give a shit who heard it. He scanned Nesta’s body again with dim red light but came up empty. “I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

“It must be internal bleeding,” Feyre said shakily. Her words blended together with a rushed sort of panic that Cassian knew was coming out of him as well. “The widow’s body stitched itself back together but Nesta didn’t stop. It was as if she was in a trance and then her nose started to bleed…”

Each word stabbed through his stomach as if a blade were being repeatedly thrust through Cassian’s flesh. More blood leaked from Nesta’s nose and inside of him, those twisted strands of rope started to fray and unravel. 

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut, his expression wringing at the pain. His siphons pulsed as he looked into himself; to the braided rope that had been strung between them long, long ago but left alone. He willed his magic to strengthen them; red twisting around light wrapped around light. And at the end — her end — no ice. 

In the distance, Cassian felt Feyre’s hands on him. They didn’t feel real. “Cassian, what is it? What’s going on?”

His siphons sputtered as Nesta’s light started to turn dark. 

Urgently, he snapped his eyelids open. 

Feyre was already standing, as if she knew what he was going to say.

“Get Madja.”

Feyre did not respond, she only folded her blood-streaked body into the air at the command until she vanished into nothing.

* * *

Feyre arrived at the bungalow with Madja just as Cassian placed Nesta on top of his bed.

He had shot into the skies with Nesta in his arms as soon as Feyre had vanished. Behind him, warriors carried Mas and a blood-soaked Roksana. 

In the few seconds before he had taken flight, the housekeeper had woken with an alertness that told Cassian that whatever Nesta had done had worked. Whilst her clothes were tattered and stained red, Mas’s skin was unmarred and her eyes… they were bright, if not a little round. 

Cassian was keen to have her checked over by a Velaris healer, but… she was alive and breathing, thanks to Nesta.

Cassian did not think he could have dealt with the loss of Mas. 

To put an Illyrian female in his bed went against every cultural tradition engrained into his cold and miserable upbringing, so Cassian had barked at the warriors to put Mas in Nesta’s room and had taken Nesta straight to his. The sight of Nesta amongst his sheets and wrapped in his scent had the territorial part of him clawing at his self-control; he barely saw the other healers arrive on a star-kissed wind, or noticed the speed at which Feyre entered the room. All he saw was Nesta looking pale and small against the blankets, her chest barely moving as blood continued to leak from her nose.

Panic had taken on a new definition. He was consumed with it. Burning as fiercely as Nesta’s flames, and he wanted to snarl and snap, to do something to make everything move faster. To wind time forward to a moment when Nesta was going to be well and he didn’t feel like his whole world was being cleaved in two.

At the doorway, Cassian felt his brother step out of shadow. Cassian only had to share a look with Azriel for the shadowsinger to fold back into darkness, as if he had never been there at all. 

With Azriel’s disappearance came Rhys and Madja. The healer hobbled into the room, the aura of calm in a hurricane of panic, but Rhys remained at the threshold, as if he knew that to step in would have Cassian snarling.

The leather of Madja’s medical bag let out a gentle, creaking thump as she placed it onto the bedside table.

“Step away from the patient, please,” Madja ordered with that ancient voice of hers, her hands immediately hovering over Nesta’s head to start a body scan. “And anybody who does not need to be here, it is time for you to leave.”

Shrewd eyes landed on Rhys. Violet met hazel in warning as his brother quickly strode to his mate and placed a kiss to Feyre’s blood-streaked forehead. Feyre did not turn, she only clasped Nesta’s hand in her own with a blankness to her expression that Cassian knew would have Rhys beside himself with worry. Feyre squeezed her sister’s hand tightly, as if her hold would convey the words she would not say out loud, before she reluctantly let it drop.

Rhys clicked his fingers and the blood and grime disappeared from all of their bodies. Without it, Nesta looked as if she were in a deep, pained sleep. The arrows at the base of her nose had taken up permanent residence, and Cassian was so busy scanning Nesta’s body for any obvious signs of injury, that he only just registered the way Rhys paused to clasp Cassian on the shoulder on his way out. The gesture was brotherly but Cassian could not bring himself to acknowledge it. Rhys seemed to understand, disappearing from the bungalow altogether, taking Madja’s healers with him to tend to the injured and set the females up towards the back of the mountain pass where it would be safer.

Madja listened to Feyre and Cassian with an unruffled sense of ease that Cassian suspected only came with years upon years of healing the wounded. The sweet thrum of her magic hummed to life as she slowly ran her hands over Nesta’s thin body.

“She healed a widow,” Feyre told Madja. Her voice shook. Cassian would have reached out to comfort his friend if it weren’t for the hole he was wearing into the carpet as he paced back and forth. He could not stop, even for a moment, the unease in his stomach too intense as he clung to that rope inside of him, not letting himself retreat for a moment in fear that it would snap. “I watched the wounds knit themselves back together and her wings regrow.”

Cassian’s eyes snapped to Feyre just as Madja’s dark hands snagged on Nesta’s abdomen, her magic flaring as if it were setting itself to work. “What do you mean Nesta regrew her wings?” he demanded.

“They were in tatters,” Feyre told him. “There was barely anything left of them—”

Cassian just had time to see Feyre’s mouth fall open in disbelief as he turned sharply on his heel and left the room. 

Because Cassian had suspected that day on the battlefield, when he had left with bones that had somehow half knitted themselves back together — fractured rather than broken in the places he had heard them snap, that Nesta might have power beyond death. 

Cassian had been too consumed with panic and worry for Nesta that he hadn’t looked at Mas’s own wings… At what Nesta might have done…

“Masak.”

The housekeeper was propped up in Nesta’s bed surrounded by two healers with Roksana tucked into her side. She shot him a shaky smile as he strode into the room. It was a look halfway between trauma and disbelief; of someone who had survived unimaginable pain but was now completely well.

“Show me your wings.”

The order was there and Mas obeyed, holding up a wing in turn, like one might lift an elbow. The look in her eyes was knowing as he gently grasped at her shoulder and squeezed, urging her to lean forward… to showcase the white line that no longer marred the back of them, nor the riddled scar tissue and the missing claw. 

Cassian’s hand tightened on Mas’s shoulder. “Your wings —” he started, his voice breaking at the understanding of what Nesta had done — of the freedom she had granted Mas at her own cost.

Mas’s eyes shone. “I do not deserve this.”

“It is _everything_ you deserve,” Cassian told her hoarsely, levelling his gaze with hers to show his words were genuine. “I’m sorry, I will be back. I...”

He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. To explain that he did not know what was wrong with Nesta, let alone whether she would be ok. 

_“Sinta.”_

Mas’s soft voice had Cassian halting at the doorway. He leant heavily against the doorframe, his body using the reprieve to sag. He was so tired. He felt utterly drained, as if every movement had him wading through mud. “Yes?” 

He did not turn around to look at the female who was the closest thing he had to a mother. She would know how close he was to breaking if he looked at her, and right now, Cassian needed to be strong. 

“Lady Nesta... she is going to be ok?”

His voice cracked despite his best efforts. “I don’t know.” Reaching inside of himself he grazed that twisted piece of rope — the tether that he had not let go of since he had felt Nesta starting to slip. “I am glad that you are all right. I’ll be back later,” he promised, and unable to look at her for fear of breaking, he returned to his bedroom.

Feyre and Madja were where he had left them: Feyre white-faced and perched on the armchair beside his bed; Madja hovering over Nesta with her eyes shut in concentration.

Yellow healing light poured from the hands that hovered over Nesta’s lower abdomen with an intensity that told Cassian that Madja’s healing magic had been set to work. 

It seemed to be helping; when Cassian looked to Nesta’s face, he was relieved to see the colour back in her cheeks and that blood had stopped trickling from her nose. A path of dried blood remained there instead, the copper flaky. 

He wanted to wipe it away — to rid Nesta of all traces that said she was suffering. 

Feyre shot him a concerned look as he stepped fully into the room, but he paid her no heed. “Mas’s wings were damaged long before today,” he announced. “They were torn, cut and riddled with scar tissue. Nesta didn’t just regrow her wings, she healed them completely.”

Understanding dawned on Madja’s face. When she opened her ancient eye, something akin to awe flitted across her features. 

After a moment, Madja’s hands dropped. She beckoned to them with a thin, bony hand to leave the room. 

They followed the healer as she hobbled into the living area, where she rested a hand on the couch, as if to steady herself.

She stared first at Feyre and then to Cassian where she held his gaze — as if she could feel the territorial panic that threatened to consume him. “A healer usually uses a combination of magic and their own energy to restore health to the sick or injured,” Madja started to explain. “If we run out of magic, we simply cannot heal, but Nesta’s magic is unlike I’ve ever felt before, and as such, it does not work like mine.”

“Even healers as old and as experienced as I cannot mend long-term injuries in one go,” Madja continued quietly. “We have to dig deep into the trauma to correct what has been pushed down with time. Regrowing long-healed wounds takes an enormous amount of healing magic. Today Nesta went beyond the urgent life-threatening wounds and started to heal past injuries.”

“Is that why Nesta started to bleed out?” Feyre asked, as she tried to connect the dots. “Because her magic was too depleted?”

Madja nodded seriously. “Yes. By not only bringing Mas back from the brink of death but healing her completely, I would guess that Nesta gave too much of herself. Magic is balance. For healers, it’s about giving our own energy. For Nesta, it appears the consequences are far more dire if she is not careful, and her body will give up on her.”

Spindrift hair as light as cotton wool moved as though soft breeze was running through the house. Madja’s dark eyes came to rest on Cassian. “Nesta will recover just fine. I have stopped the internal bleeding, but she will be sore for a few days. Her body will do the rest. She has completely drained herself of magic and will need to sleep a great deal, but there is no need to hold on any longer. She will be perfectly well.”

Madja’s gaze on Cassian deepened until it became pointed. “It would be worth having a healer train Nesta in her magic so she can learn when to stop. Healing magic is not unlike a trance, it lures you in with its beautiful song, but one must learn the arch of the melody to ensure it does not sacrifice your own health. After all, how can one heal if they are not healed themselves?”

Feyre’s hand darted across the mattress to grasp Nesta’s hand. “When will she be able to leave her bed?” 

“A few days,” Madja said, but she patted Cassian’s arm rather than Feyre’s. “She will be in a great deal of pain until the morning.” 

Madja bent stiffly to pick up her leather bag from the carpet. “I’m surprised I’m not treating you on your death bed, General.”

For once in his life, Cassian did not banter. “Will you check over the widow before you go? Just for a second opinion?”

Cassian waited for Madja to explain with ancient wisdom that her healers were competent enough, but she only bowed her head. 

“Of course.” Madja heaved her bag of supplies into one hand, and Cassian resisted plucking it into his own arms to save the elderly Fae from carrying it herself. He suspected that she would not appreciate the gesture. “She’s a miracle that I would very much like to witness.” 

Turning to Feyre, Madja handed two glass vials stoppered with cork. “A sedative to help her sleep and a tincture to manage the pain. Administer the tincture every hour for the next six. Dip a bit onto a rag and wet it on her mouth until she wakes. A teaspoon of the sedative will do — it’s very strong.” Then the healer added, “She’ll need both, so see that they are not forgotten.” 

* * *

Administering the tincture was easier said than done. Cassian had watched Feyre try to coax Nesta’s lips open for minutes before he had left the house entirely, unable to stand the pain that ran through him in waves whenever Nesta came close enough to resurface. There was also the fact that he did not trust himself to betray how intensely he felt for her in the bungalow that had become theirs, even if that was something he admitted only in his mind. 

It was not because he was embarrassed. No, he was certain that all of his family knew the gravity of his feelings, even if it was something he did not wish to voice out loud. They all knew what had happened in the war, after all. Rather it was the knowledge that Nesta would not want his emotions to sit so clearly on the surface for everyone to see. She was a private person and showcasing his obvious feelings for her in front of others without her knowledge could be seen as mockery on her part: her family and his friends knowing what he believed her to either be oblivious to or unwilling to recognise. 

And being a territorial bastard on top of all of that… Well, Cassian imagined that if Nesta was awake she would have burnt him to cinders by now.

Fighting the exhaustion that made his limbs as heavy as lead, Cassian made his way to the back of the mountain pass, close to where he and Nesta trained in the mornings. The Illyrian’s had made quick work moving the widows and orphans to safety and setting up camp. To the far left of the pass, nestled under the safety of some pine trees, were a series of large makeshift tents. Their flaps were open despite the elements, and Madja’s healers worked inside, their warm, golden light hard at work as they treated the injured. 

In the middle of it all was Rhys. Devlon was by his side, the war lord’s expression set even harder than usual. An outsider would assume that Illyrians, who cared little for the widows and female orphans, would see today’s events only as an inconvenience, but that was not the truth. The truth was that the Illyrian’s viewed it as a wound on their pride — of a fault in their patrols. They also saw it as being kicked whilst they were down — another reason why their High Lord was failing them after they had suffered such losses in the war. And thanks to Kallon’s propaganda after the attacks on the other camps, the sentiment amongst many of the Illyrian’s was that they had been abandoned to rot and die at the teeth of beasts now the Night Court no longer needed them on the battlefield.

It was an attitude felt most keenly by those who had suffered, but here at Windhaven, with Nesta and Feyre on the scene so quickly, the casualties had been far less than they should have been. Without them… it would have been a bloodbath. Cassian had no doubt that they’d have lost far, far more and Rhys’s presence now… it was best that he was here even if the Illyrian’s did survey him with dark, depthless eyes.

They needed to see their High Lord and High Lady. Needed to understand that their Court cared and fought for them. That they had not been abandoned.

Drawing up beside his brother, Cassian did not bother with formalities. “How many?” he demanded to the war lord.

“Thirteen deaths and thirty plus casualties,” Devlon replied, his expression tight at the order. “All contained to the mountain. The guards killed any kerits that ventured further down the mountain path to the main camp.”

Cassian didn’t want to ask at the same time that he had. “And how many were younglings?”

“None. The widows distracted the kerits until the High Lady and her sister arrived on the scene to fight them off.”

Cassian could not think of the destruction those kerits would have wreaked if it were not for Feyre and Nesta. He could tell from the way that Devlon had not spit the word _witch_ that it was a sentiment begrudgingly shared.

Devlon hadn’t given Nesta hell that morning at the sparring ring either. Cassian had all but stalked over to them only to find Devlon telling Nesta to watch where she blasted her fire without a trace of a sneer. Then, later, when he put Nesta through her paces with the blade, Devlon had still been there, watching with those dark, beady eyes of his. It was a look Cassian recognised. It was the same assessing gaze he and Azriel had received all of those years ago, when they had proved themselves to be stronger than every other opponent in the ring.The same look that had allowed them to perform in the Rite and earn their siphons. The same look that allowed Cassian to be standing in front of the war lord not as a meagre foot soldier, but as General of the Night Court’s Armies.

But that did not erase the fact that females had died today because of a gap in Devlon’s patrols.

So he said coldly, “By distracted, you mean that those females gave their lives to protect the youngling’s.” Cassian stared out at the new tents that Rhys had magicked for the widows. Cassian was going to insist to Rhys that buildings were erected immediately. Tents were not protection enough against the kerits and the Illyrian’s were no longer in a place to turn down financial help.

“The females will remain here permanently,” Cassian told Devlon with an air of finality that dissuaded argument. “It is not safe for them to relocate back up to the mountain. This is the third attack in little more than a month on three separate camps.”

“Which leads me to my next question,” Cassian continued, his voice falling into a growl, anger finally creeping into the shock that had taken a hold of him. “Where were the aerial warriors that should have been patrolling the perimeter? It is routine to fly over the widows camp. They should have spotted those beasts from a mile off.”

Cassian had no doubt that it was Nesta’s silver fire and the screams of agony carrying on the wind that had alerted the warriors. What if Nesta and Feyre had not been there to defend the females? Cassian didn’t want to think of the torn limbs and the trailing guts, of the small, lifeless bodies and the staring eyes. He had already seen them at Forktail and Swallow’s Ridge. Had watched the pyres burn and the hatred for their High Lord simmering beneath the Illyrian’s skin. 

Perhaps here Nesta and Feyre had done enough to douse the fires fuelling the dissent. Perhaps Windhaven would be the only camp not to fall into the rebellion’s open claws. 

Devlon’s dark, beady eyes settled coldly on Rhys. “ _He_ pulled extra warriors to guard the bottom of the mountain,” he sneered, jerking his chin to Cassian. “We were short on numbers.”

“They are foot soldiers not aerial,” Rhys interrupted smoothly, before Cassian could snarl a response. “Which,” he added lightly, “you are more than aware of. Where were the aerial soldiers patrolling the Eastern skies of the camp? You have known about the attacks on the other camps and were ordered to tighten the patrols and increase security. So I will ask again: where were the soldiers patrolling the Eastern skies of the camp?”

Rhys’s voice had dropped into a fury which crackled with power, the promise of deathly night hanging in the atmosphere around them. Devlon’s hard eyes flicked to Rhys’s hands, where just one click had the ability to shatter his mind.

He shifted onto another foot, betraying his unease but did not reply.

“Let’s go into the war tent,” Rhys ordered with a calm fervour that Devlon did not dare to contradict. 

They stalked to the tent with such intent that warrior’s jumped out of their path with fierce attention.

Rhys waited until they were inside and then he cast a soundproof bubble around them with a flick of his fingers. 

He turned to Devlon with a deadly calm that Cassian knew was dangerous. Devlon knew it too. Had witnessed it before.

“My mate saw three figures flying above the mountain pass minutes before the attack,” Rhys said conversationally, his violet eyes piercing.

“Flying across the camps is permitted,” Devlon drawled, with more nerve than Cassian had expected. Illyrian’s did not like to be called incompetent, and although Devlon was the fairest of the war lord’s, sometimes it pained Cassian that he could be no different.

Rhys inspected the invisible dirt beneath his fingernails. “They were not flying the perimeter. They cut straight across the belly of the camp. Now, I can use my own means to suss out who they are by calling in my shadowsinger, or you can do your job as war lord and identify who they were, why they were there and where they are now. They certainly weren’t reporting an attack. Your warriors landed well after my mate and her sister arrived on the scene.”

Devlon bristled. Rose up taller, nostrils flaring. Rhys stared him down, utterly unfazed. The dominant alpha male, always, High Lord or no.

“I’d also like to see the males responsible for the gap in patrol as a matter of urgency,” Rhys continued. “I trust that you and your close circle of most faithful warriors will perform this task as a matter or urgency.”

Together, Rhys and Cassian watched Devlon stalk off, his shoulders set in fury and determination.

Already, dread lined Cassian’s stomach as Rhys violet eyes rested on him, “Do you think this was manufactured?”

Straight to the point. It was a question Cassian had been asking himself again and again as he stared at Nesta’s pale face and the blood trickling from her nose. 

“One camp attack can be seen as a tragedy, even two can be passed off as a bad coincidence. But three attacks on three separate camps? It’s pre-meditated, I’m sure of it,” Cassian admitted grimly. “It could be Kallon. It would be smart, to orchestrate attacks on the vulnerable but disposable. It would cement his cause in the minds of the rest of the community. It would make them more open to listening to his ideology and wish for a united Illyria under his rule.”

“It’s a possibility,” Rhys admitted soberly, his features mirroring Cassian’s. “We would need concrete evidence to reveal that there was intent behind the attacks. Illyrian’s are already patrolling the area, but I don’t trust them. The resistance could have infiltrated any of the soldiers without us knowing. Without proof there is nothing we can do. I’ll have Azriel scour the mountain range when he returns.”

Cassian rubbed his palms over his tired face. He needed to sleep more than anything. He was utterly drained, his siphons near exhausted, his emotions rubbed raw. He wanted to curl up beside Nesta to make sure that she was safe. There was an insistent tugging in his ribcage, a persistent force urging him to go back to the bungalow and protect, even when he knew Nesta was safer in the bungalow than anywhere else in the entirety of Prythian.

“There’s something else you should see,” Rhys said. He was eyeing his brother in that all-seeing way of his, as if only now he was witnessing the true gravity of what today had done to Cassian. Of what it all meant.

The tightness to his voice had dread lining Cassian’s stomach. He couldn’t take anymore bad news. He couldn’t.

“What?” he asked begrudgingly, but Rhys just wordlessly held out his hand for Cassian to grasp.

As soon as their hand’s touched, they disappeared.

* * *

He and Rhys were at the top of the mountain when Cassian sensed claws clipping on the stone around the fire that shielded his mind.

Feyre had never been inside Cassian’s head before, but Cassian knew it was his High Lady. Knew in the way that the glimmer of worry and concern carried on a breeze of pear and lilac, making his flames dance. 

Unlike Rhys, who had built centuries of trust between his inner circle in order to request access to their minds, Feyre had never shown any intention of doing the same. Cassian was not sure whether that was a lack of habit or because she saw it as an invasion of privacy. Yet, Cassian did not hesitate in parting his flames, just barely, enough that Feyre’s voice floated into his head: _Nesta’s waking up. You should come._

“I have to go.”

Rhys did not ask why, he only nodded, his blue-black hair moving elegantly in the wind rather than tangling like his own. “I’ve got it here.” 

Violet eyes flicked over Cassian’s face, no doubt taking in the deep-set worry and fatigue. “Nesta will be ok, brother.” 

Cassian looked away — out at the peaked mountains and the white-dusted pine trees. It had started to snow, and the vast scenery before them was cascaded in a flurry of cotton. His jaw feathered.

Then a hand was on his shoulder. Cassian turned his head in surprise. “Nesta saved Feyre’s life,” Rhys said. “Would you like to see?”

A gift. A concession. An offer to show Cassian Nesta strong and indestructible. 

A raked claw down his fire. Parted flames. Nesta alive and breathing, wielding a sword of silver flame, moving as if she had not been taught the dance, but had choreographed it herself. 

Feyre’s terror was like hot, fresh blood in his mouth as a kerit leapt at her out of nowhere, but then Nesta’s sword was sizzling through muscle and sinew. Cassian tasted Feyre’s heartbeat, the frantic pulse of it, the relief that followed as the beast collapsed to the ground. 

Blinking, the present Windhaven came back into sight. Already the trauma and bloodstains of the day’s events were being erased by snow; wiped off the scenery, but not from history. 

“I’ve only ever seen you fight like that,” Rhys said quietly. “The way Nesta cut through those kerits with only months of training… She reminds me of you.”

“I trained her,” Cassian reminded his brother tightly. 

But Rhys shook his head, as if that was not what he meant at all. 

There was a beat. A pause. It stretched out for what felt like eternity as words were formed and reformed in his brother’s mind. But in the end, all Rhys said was, “Go. Feyre says Nesta’s distressed.”

* * *

When Cassian arrived at the house Nesta was in the throes of a flashback. Halfway between sleeping and waking, nonsensical ragged moans rose from her throat, and the sheets lay tangled around her leg, as if she had kicked them off in her panic. Although her fingers sparked silver, the magic died at the tips, not replenished enough to do any damage. Cassian suspected it was the pain that had started to make her lucid, the sensation enough to drag her from the deep realms which confused nightmare and reality.

Was Nesta reliving old battle trauma or was she still stuck in the events from earlier that day, caked in blood as she fought snarling beasts?

“Nesta, it’s all right,” Feyre said frantically, her voice trying to soothe but only rising in panic as Nesta continued to thrash. She threw a wild, accusing look over her shoulder as Cassian entered the room before she refocussed her attention back on her sister, as if to say, _what took you so long?_ “You’re at the bungalow. You passed out but Madja says you’re going to be just fine.”

She reached out a hand to push Nesta back down into the mattress, to stop her from causing herself more pain but Cassian caught her hands before they made contact.

“Don’t touch her,” he warned. “She will lash out at you,” he elaborated in an attempt to ease the surprise from Feyre’s face.

Crouching beside the bed, Cassian made sure to strike a careful balance between proximity and space. He forced his words to be casual rather than full of worry — made sure to erase the word _sweetheart_ from the tip of his tongue. The affection crept in anyway. It always did when he said her name. “Nesta. You’re safe. The kerits are gone. The widows and younglings are out of danger. You’re ok.”

For a moment, Nesta stilled but then she moaned again, the sound expelled on a long, pained breath. Her hands crept to her abdomen, the action meditated enough that Cassian could tell she was awake. 

Everything hurt as her expression crumpled in agony. 

“You suffered some internal bleeding which is probably why you feel like shit,” Cassian told Nesta with forced lightness, hoping that the depth of his voice would keep her above the surface. 

He had fisted his hands at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her, but then her hand started to search across the mattress, blindly following his voice. It took him a few seconds to form the scrambled realisation that she was trying to find _him_. He unfurled a palm and lay it on the coverlets, letting her discover it for herself rather than startle her. 

Her fingers were ice cold as they met with his. He hadn’t dared light the fire, not even whilst she was firmly under. Feyre had looked at him with confusion when he had ordered her not to light it in his absence, but she had only taken the extra blankets he had pulled from the cupboard without a word.

Cassian twitched a finger at the contact, letting Nesta know he was there, but otherwise remaining still. He only realised he had been holding his breath when her cold fingers wrapped clumsily around his palm — ice on fire.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” he asked, because he was too scared to say what he really felt, especially with Feyre there.

_You nearly died._

_I’m so proud of you._

_You’re a healer._

_We haven’t had time — not yet._

The last was a stupidly loaded comment that would only remain inside the cages surrounding his heart. He had lost his chance with Nesta long ago and Cassian was not foolish enough to think that them living together was fate presenting them with another chance. Besides, Nesta’s recovery was more important than his selfish wants and needs. And although the magnitude of his yearning for Nesta made his previous desire for anyone else completely inconsequential, he would let it lie. 

Nesta’s finger twitching against his palm brought him back to himself. The movement was only once, the action deliberately purposeful. The communication he had strung between them all those months ago when words were too hard. 

_Yes._

“I’m not surprised you’re hurting,” Cassian chided as he turned to Feyre, gesturing silently for the morphine. Feyre leapt up, passing Cassian the glass vial and the cloth she had been trying to get Nesta to take since Madja had left.

“Mouth open, sweetheart. I’m going to give you something to take the edge off.” 

He dipped the rag in the medicine before he pressed it to her lips. 

“Tastes like shit,” Cassian told Nesta conversationally as he rung the cloth gently so the liquid passed between her lips, “but it will dull the pain.” His smile was crooked as those steel-blue eyes slowly flickered open. They were bleary and streaked with red, but her gaze locked onto his with a strength that should not have surprised him. He watched her struggle to swallow and the wince that came with the bitter medicine. “Maybe I’ll ask Madja if I can mix it into some chai,” he tried in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Make it more palatable.”

Nesta’s expression did not change, but he could have sworn he heard a huff of breath. 

He watched the column of her pale, beautiful neck move as she swallowed again. And then her cracked lips parted.

Her tentative whisper was hoarse. “Mas…”

“Healed thanks to you,” Cassian told her quickly as he moved over to the dresser to stopper the medicine. It put Feyre into Nesta’s line of vision, but Nesta was only looking at him when he turned back around. “More than healed, actually. She’s in your bed resting. Not that she hasn’t tried to get out already. That female is as stubborn as a—”

“Don’t move!” 

Feyre’s warning burst out of her before Cassian had turned back around. When he did, Feyre was lurching forwards as Nesta stuttered a gasp — as if the breath had been sucked out of her lungs. Her body arching as her hands flew to her abdomen. 

A deep, agonising sort of pain rippled through him. And if it hurt him rather than discomforted him, the pain must be indescribably bad for Nesta.

“You suffered internal bleeding,” Feyre explained as Cassian tried to catch his breath. “Madja thinks your body started to give out as you ran out of healing magic.” 

Steel grey bore into Feyre for a moment and then that crease worried between her eyebrows. As usual, it just made Nesta look more beautiful, even when her expression was still pained.

Somehow Cassian knew what she needed, even though he was still reeling from the pain. So he adopted a drawl that usually had her hissing at him. “Difficult even when you’re bedridden,” he scolded. “If I bring Mas to you will you stop trying to get out of bed?”

Mercury eyes slid to his as she allowed Feyre to ease her back against the pillows. “I promise,” he assured her. “Stay here, I’ll go get her.”

To Cassian’s absolute disbelief, he found Mas in the bathroom bathing Roksana.

He considered barking at her to get back in bed and rest but even he couldn’t deny that Mas looked healthy and well. Really well, if he thought about it properly. There was a light in her eyes that Cassian had never seen; a spark of hope and determination despite the atrocities she and her fellow females had endured that morning. It was sad, Cassian thought, that Mas was not more traumatised. That she was used to such unimaginable suffering that for her, the kerits was just another mark on an already bleak life. 

“You need to come,” he told Mas, as she hauled Roksana from the bath and wrapped the little girl’s wet body wrapped in a fluffy grey towel. “And I thought you were told not to do any lifting.”

Mas snorted, her beautiful, unmarred wings rustling behind her. The housekeeper must be desperate to launch into the skies, yet here she was looking after Roksana. “And I suppose someone else is going to bathe this dirty youngling?”

“Please stop,” Cassian pleaded, resting a hand on her arm as she started to towel Roksana. “You need to rest. I’ll organise someone to look after Roksana. Stay in Nesta’s room whilst you recover.”

“I am recovered,” Mas told Cassian sternly, as she pulled a sleeveless shirt of Nesta’s over Roksana’s head. It fell to Roksana’s feet like a makeshift nightdress. “As the healer’s told both you and I. You should count yourself lucky that I have not yet gone to help the other females. And this little one stays with me. The last thing she needs is to be separated right now.”

Cassian’s snort was soft, but all he said was, “Nesta is awake. She wishes to see you. Both of you.” He nodded to Roksana who had been nestled back onto Mas’s hip. The youngling was silent in the haunted sort of way that Nesta had been when she first arrived at Windhaven, clinging to Mas as if she were terrified the housekeeper would disappear.

The healer had been very clear that Mas was not to do anything strenuous, and Cassian bet that counted hauling around a youngling. 

So he smiled gently at Roksana, crouching down to her level and making his voice soft as he could muster, as he asked in Illyrian, “Vultis venire ad me?”

Dark eyes studied him warily, but then she held her short arms out. The gesture was half-hearted but Cassian took her from the housekeeper anyway. Roksana was small for her age and weighed barely anything in his arms. She did not hold on tightly to him as she had done for Mas. Instead, she sat away from his body, as if she were not comfortable enough to cling on to him.

When he looked back to Mas, there was a ghost of a sad smile on her lips before she headed to his room.

Feyre had managed to prop Nesta up onto some pillows when they arrived. There was a look of intense irritation lining the exhaustion on Nesta’s face, telling Cassian her emotions were rubbed raw.

He had no idea how her meeting with Feyre had gone, but he thought it a good sign that Nesta had not banished Feyre from the room from the get-go. Despite being bedridden, Cassian had no qualms that Nesta had the strength to do it. Although her eyes _did_ look a little glassy, as if the tincture had kicked in, so that could have something to do with it too.

When Mas walked into the room, Nesta’s face twisted and crumpled, a ghost of a memory sliding across her expression; as if she were replaying the sight of Mas’s torn body as she bled out. Cassian watched Nesta’s eyes dart to Mas’s abdomen before they assessed every inch of the housekeeper’s body, as if she did not believe that she was standing before her, alive and breathing and wholly well.

When blue-grey slid to the wings on Mas’s back, the emotion that rushed over him was akin to a tidal wave crashing onto hot sand.

“ _Mas_.” 

The word came out broken, Nesta’s hand immediately reaching out for the housekeeper — to the proud and beautiful wings that spanned from her back. Her fingers curled despite the distance; a deliberate move to show she did not intend to touch them. Cassian did not know if someone had told Nesta that it was not acceptable to touch an Illyrian’s wings or whether she was sharp enough to have figured it out on her own. He suspected the latter. Nesta was the goddamns smartest person he had ever met. If she were an Illyrian in his army, Cassian would not think twice before placing her on his war council. With the right experience, she could be invaluable.

Stopping a foot away from the bed, Mas spread out her wings. They were the colour of umber in the gentle faelight and the membrane was completely unmarred; free of the scar tissue her wings had been riddled with. Hesitantly, Mas flexed the two claws that stood at the apex of her wings, as if she were working a long unused muscle.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” the housekeeper asked conversationally, but her eyes were suddenly swimming with tears, as if the flood gates had opened and she could not control the inevitable. 

Closing the distance between she and Nesta, Mas leant down, her weathered hands framing Nesta’s face. When she spoke next, her voice cracked, “ _Diyosa_. You are our miracle. You are my miracle. You gave me back my freedom. I can never thank you enough—”

A sob broke from Nesta. Cassian watched that beautiful face crumple as the sound splintered around the room, her hands instinctively flying up to cover her mouth as if she wished to suppress it. 

Mas caught Nesta’s fingers before they could stifle it. Gently, she brushed away the stream of rolling tears that ran down Nesta’s face. When the housekeeper smiled, Cassian could have sworn that light radiated around the room despite the dull grey weather outside.

The action just made Nesta cry harder and Mas hushed her as if she were admonishing a child, carefully cradling Nesta’s golden-brown head to her chest.

“Come now,” Mas soothed, running a hand over Nesta’s tangled hair — a mother comforting her offspring. “I am perfectly fine, thanks to you. There’s no need to shed any tears for me.”

Pulling away so she could look Nesta in the eye, Mas smiled toothily through her own tears. “We must find you some wings so you can come flying with me, sinta. What do you think, huh?”

A huff caught between a sob. It was a sound of disbelief and was akin to what Cassian felt; that Mas could endure such hardship but still joke and smile. That despite everything, she could find joy and happiness and broadcast such _love_. 

Mas’s eyes sparked at the sound and she cast a quick look towards Cassian. Roksana seemed to have forgotten that she was wary of Cassian and had automatically grasped his hand as he set her down on the carpet. Her grip was tight and fearful and had not changed, even when he had gently squeezed them in reassurance. 

“Shall I have General Cassian train me so I can learn to carry you with me? He’ll be pleased to finally have me in the sparring ring. Do you know how long he has tried to get me in there? A few hundred years at least.”

Another sound from Nesta. This time a broken laugh, even if it was laced with a sob. It was the most beautiful sound Cassian had ever heard. It radiated from within him, flaring with the force of a star twinkling in the darkest sky. Even through the tears, the transformation on Nesta’s face was something he’d never forget. It was as if the clouds had parted and made way for the sun.

His heart twisted as Mas grinned. She peered into Nesta’s face for a long while in the way she often did to him. The action was loving and motherly and all-seeing. Eventually, she softly patted Nesta’s cheek. “You are tired, diyosa. You must rest now. Ok?”

At the words, Nesta slumped slightly. Not from disappointment but as if she were just realising how exhausted she was. 

Mas nodded to indicate that she understood — that it was all going to be ok. “Let your sister get you comfortable. General Cassian will get you that drink to boost your energy. You wasted a lot of magic on me.”

A fierceness found its way into Nesta’s voice… her expression. “I would do it again.”

Mas stared at Nesta for a moment, but then she nodded to indicate she understood. “I know you would. If I had your magic, I would do the same for you. Always. Do not doubt that.”

Cassian touched Feyre’s arm, indicating that she should follow him out of the room as Mas eased Nesta onto her back.

Only once the door was shut did he glance at Feyre. She was staring at him, her expression undone. Huge tears ran down her face and dripped off her chin, as she said in disbelief, “I’ve never seen Nesta cry like that before. She’s my sister and I have never seen it. Not once.”

Cassian wrapped an arm around Feyre, pulling her close as best he could, his other hand still clasping Roksana’s.

Feyre leant into his embrace, burying her head against his chest. He watched her wipe away her tears. Watched her sniff as she tried to contain her sobs. Ran his palm up and down her arm in a bid to comfort her. 

When her breathing had regulated, she peered up at him with those eyes that were so similar to her sister’s, but not quite right. “What does diyosa mean?” she asked quietly. 

Cassian’s smile was crooked. “It means goddess,” he said.

* * *

Azriel and Frawley appeared in the living room a half hour later, bleeding out of shadow until their dark outlines took on finer details and colour.

Nesta had fallen back into sleep again, her body drained and exhausted to the point that she had passed out mid-conversation, her hand clasping Mas’s so tightly her knuckles had turned white, as if she were afraid that to let go would mean the housekeeper would disappear.

Rhys had arrived back at the house with a look that told Cassian the news was not good, but he had only followed the bond to find his mate in the kitchen. When Cassian had stepped between the alcoves a few moments later to rid himself of Nesta’s empty mug, he had found Feyre wrapped tightly in Rhys’s arms, her face stained already with fresh tears. 

Cassian levelled his brother with a gaze. “Took you long enough,” he remarked tersely.

“My wards are too effective, it seems,” Frawley clipped before the shadowsinger could open his mouth. The witch cast her eyes around the room, ice blue moving independently of her other brown eye. “It appears that I’m holding quite the company today.” 

Frawley nodded to Rhysand who had taken up residence by the fireplace. Feyre seated herself on the left-branch of the couch. “Rhysand. It has been a while.”

“Frawley,” Rhys drawled in greeting. Frawley gave another short nod but then an eye snagged on the fire and she frowned in irritation. 

With a quick flick of a hand the crackling fire turned quiet. “Why have the fires not been silenced?” she said shortly. “Battle trauma is at its worst when magic has been depleted. Tell me you have not lit it in your room?” 

Two eyes snapped to Cassian and he bristled. Usually he would not rise to the accusation, but the day had been long and turbulent and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone with Nesta so she could heal in peace. “Of course not,” he replied tightly, refraining from saying more; reeling in the restraint that was hanging on by a thread.

No apology came forth but Frawley was not one to do so. “And did you give her one of the tonics I made?” 

“We managed to get her to drink one before she passed out,” Cassian replied smoothly, ignoring Feyre’s frown and the understanding dawning on Rhys’s face. “She’s exhausted,” he added.

“And so are you by the looks of it,” Frawley observed, running a discerning eye over him. “Magic depleted again, but I suppose you have not been thinking about yourself to drink a tonic of your own?”

Cassian’s jaw tensed. “I thought it more important that Nesta have them.”

He expected to be scolded, but nothing came. Frawley only flicked her wrist again. In his hand appeared a mug full of liquid. The porcelain was warm rather than scolding — perfect drinking temperature. He should not have expected less from the master of her craft.

“Sit,” Frawley ordered. Unthinkingly, Cassian did as he was told. The couch cushions were soft against his body and he resisted leaning into them for fear that he might not stand up again. “Drink,” Frawley commanded. “I can’t have you passing out on me before you tell me everything that happened.” 

Her eyes rested on Feyre then. “I’d ask which sister you are but I can scent your mating bond. You are Feyre.”

Not High Lady of the Night Court, but Cassian expected no less. Frawley had been alive longer than all of them… longer than Rhys’s mother and father and their parents before them. Rumour had it that Frawley had been present at the first Illyrian battle with Oya and Enalius, although Cassian had never been brave enough to press her for details. If Frawley had seen Enalius’s sword before, Cassian suspected she had been alive during Enalius’s lifetime. And whilst she respected Rhys, Frawley was not one to bother with titles…

“Yes,” Feyre confirmed. “I am.”

“This is Frawley,” Rhys explained to Feyre to save his mate from confusion. “Witch of the Eastern Steppes and a long-term friend.”

“A healing witch,” Cassian added. He had downed the drink and already he felt stronger, the whisper of his power travelling through his veins. His siphons thrummed. “Feyre can tell you what happened, she was with Nesta the entire time.”

In a swish of skirts that moved like smoke, Frawley seated herself on the right-most edge of the couch and looked expectantly at Feyre across the low-set coffee table. 

It was command enough and Cassian listened to Feyre began to retell the day’s events. 

When Feyre finished speaking, Frawley remained quiet, keeping her chin rested on her steepled fingers. After a few moments she sat up. Even Azriel, who was the master at playing aloof and disinterested, straightened, but Frawley looked only at Cassian. 

“From what I could tell on our first meeting, Nesta’s magic has two strands: the ability to defend and the ability to heal,” Frawley began. “Someone who is gifted with healing magic uses their own energy to restore health to the sick or injured. If we run out of magic, we simply cannot heal, but I have only seen magic like Nesta’s once in my life and she is entirely her own being — ancient yet new. As a witch, I can amass more power than my natural reserve from my partnership with the elements, but there is always a price. Magic is give and take, a fine balance that must be respected. Nesta is no witch, but I believe her power works in similar ways. The problem is, the more magic you have, the more dire the consequences if you use too much at once.” 

A blue eye swivelled to Rhys at the fireplace. “As,” Frawley remarked pointedly, “some of us are all too aware.”

A nod to Hybern, when Rhys had exchanged his life to knit the Cauldron back together. 

Rhys’s expression hardened. At the nod to the fact that he and Nesta shared a common burden. At the fact that they both saw themselves as disposable, especially when it meant saving those they loved.

Feyre looked haunted. Cassian remembered the way she had scrabbled at Rhys’s layers as she tried to bring him back. The way she had _begged_ on her hands and knees.

“It sounds to me,” Frawley continued, “as if Nesta’s magic did not recognise when she had healed the fatal injuries. Instead, Nesta continued to heal, moving on to old injuries that demanded far more from the healer and upset the balance between healing and magic. Either willingly or unwillingly, Nesta started to give her life and take on the death that nearly took hold of the patient.”

Frawley looked to Feyre. “You said the widow had injuries to the gut? From the sounds of it, Nesta has the ability to take on the injury of the patient should her magic start to run dry — an extra reserve of life. Nesta suffered internal bleeding to the intestine so that Mas would not only be healed of her immediate injury, but all of her previous physical trauma.”

Silence fell for a moment as they all digested Frawley’s words. Feyre looked pained, as if she were wondering what Cassian already knew to be true: that Nesta, who loved her chosen few fiercely, would willingly offer up her life to ensure that they lived.

“You could sense the two strands of magic when we last met,” Cassian said to Frawley as he connected the dots; remembering when Frawley had asked Nesta what happened when she felt something other than rage.

“Yes,” Frawley agreed with a firm nod. “I could sense the hum of healing magic deep within her, and of course, we saw her silver fire that day and the weeks before it. I put two and two together.”

_What happens when you feel joy?  
I wouldn’t know._

“And you,” Frawley said after a heartbeat, her ice blue eye swivelling to focus on him, “are not surprised.”

“No,” Cassian admitted begrudgingly. He felt violet and steel-grey boring into him, pressing him for an explanation. Even Azriel’s shadows stilled. “My wings were snapped in multiple places at Hybern, but by the time Fae arrived on the scene some of them had been regrown.”

Frawley’s hazel eye — the exact colour of Lorrian’s — came to rest on him. “And why,” she said softly, “is that?” 

Cassian did not react to her pointed question, only stared her down. In his mind’s eye, all he could see was Nesta leaning over his body, sacrificing her life with his when she could have run.

_I can’t._

Cassian was thankful when Azriel interjected. “Nesta has just woken again. Perhaps it is time for someone to explain the finer details of why she is in bed. I do not think I would like everyone knowing my business before I knew it myself.”

A calm yet direct way of highlighting Nesta’s penchant for privacy. 

“I will check Nesta over to make sure the healer didn’t miss anything and get her to take a stronger tonic to replenish her energy levels. It will cut her time in bed by half,” Frawley told them as she stood. “If Nesta wishes to harness her healing skills, I will teach her what I know. To hold so much power in your hands is a terrifying thing.” Again, that blue eye rested on Rhys, and in that gaze… challenge and understanding. “I know of someone else who struggled with the enormity of it, and he turned out to be an admirable leader.”

For a moment, Frawley and Rhys stared at one another. In the air, Cassian could taste the hum of magic; of starlight eternal and the scent of damp, cold earth after rain… of cold air streaked with fire smoke.

No-one moved. No-one breathed. Everything felt taut and expectant and then, as suddenly as it all came, the atmosphere dropped.

“Caerleon is flying to meet me,” Frawley told no-one in particular as she headed to Cassian’s room. “Do let him in, otherwise he might start terrorising some males and I might not find it in myself to stop him.”

And then with a swish of her skirts, Frawley was gone. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 24 - can you guys believe it?! I have brought you a lot of angst in the last few chapters, but there is a lil fluffy moment in this chapter which I hope you enjoy. Plus protective Cassian (one of my personal favourites).
> 
> As ACOSF draws nearer, I wanted to ask you guys a question. I initially was hoping to finish this fic before it came out, but I just don't think it's going to happen. So if you would still read E&L after ACOSF comes out, could you let me know? It will help me to make a decision on whether I need to start wrapping this all up sharpish, or whether I can continue to move along at my current pace.
> 
> Thanks as always for your wonderful comments. For those of you looking for extra E&L content, I posted Nesta's POV of her in the bath with cramps from Chapter 15 on my Tumblr (@duskandstarlight), as well as a Nesta POV of when she sees Cassian in a towel in Chapter 20:
> 
> https://duskandstarlight.tumblr.com/post/638387223809687552/hi-i-hope-you-are-doing-well-i-absolutely
> 
> https://duskandstarlight.tumblr.com/post/638115586090647552/can-please-give-a-pov-i-am-not-sure-whether
> 
> Enjoy :) And I hope you all are having a lovely festive period.

** Chapter 24  
Nesta **

_Nesta was drowning._

_Drowning in the dark; in the unfathomable cold that bit at her ankles and dragged her down by invisible, insistent hands and sharp, pointed claws. Down, down, down Nesta went, into the inky blackness that sung of ancient horror, fighting for a breath that she could not take._

_Inside her head, Nesta was screaming; the sound an echo, as if she were detached from her body and she were listening to someone else. It was a scream of rage and unmeasurable pain as her body was torn apart and rearranged: her bones cracking and reforming into solid steel; her ears stretching into points; her limbs elongating. And with that fire a burning cold that was deeper than the gap between stars. Nesta screamed from the agony of it, but cold water rushed into her lungs and stifled the sound. Pain licked at her skin like the flames of a fire, until her blood was bubbling with rage and a thirst for revenge that ran so deep it became woven into the very fabric of who she was — of who she was being moulded into._

_Nesta should have passed out from the pain but instead she fought to remain conscious; wholly awake and wholly a witness as she tore at the edges of the blasted Cauldron. The sides were made of nothing but canvas, Nesta’s nails ripping through it as the Cauldron bucked and shrieked, like an animal caught beneath her paw._

_Bright light poured through the gaping holes, blinding her new born eyes that had not yet seen._

_She felt the power of it, the piece she carved out for herself in fury and with revenge singing in her blood. She made it hers, let that power sink into her bones, her skin, as they snapped and cracked and reshaped themselves…_

_The Cauldron continued to thrash and struggle. The water took on a thicker quality like tar, but Nesta did not relent. She ravaged that power until it was a part of her; stolen and consumed. Impossible to take back._

_And then Nesta was no longer drowning but falling._

_The pocket of air hit her with such force that Nesta found herself with the irony that she could not breathe, even though it was what she needed more than anything in the world. But then her lungs were spluttering, her stomach lurching, and inky blackness — ancient death — was regurgitated onto crystalline rock. Nesta heaved until her stomach had no more and she was gasping for breath — cold, bracing fresh air that tasted like freedom — before she rolled onto her back, her hair plastered to her face._

_She shivered from the cold and the unquenchable fury that would not see her yield._

_Above her was midnight black, the stillness of what Nesta wanted to believe was sky but she knew was only an illusion. It brought her comfort even though she wanted to hate it; wanted to sob and scream until she was so exhausted that she couldn’t muster any more strength._

_And she should have been terrified but she also felt deathly calm, even as a voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice that was ancient; old and superlunary with a strength that whispered of unimaginable power for better or worse._ _“I have been waiting for you, Nesta Archeron.”_

_Words like ice fire. Of steel and reserve. Of power beyond Nesta’s wildest reckoning._

_It hurt to move but Nesta scrambled to her feet, slipping on loose rock and craggy stone. The sound that beat in her ears was an insistent, terrified rhythm, and it took Nesta a moment to piece together that it was her heart, throwing itself with a repetitive boom against strips of bone — a flimsy cage for something so fierce._

_Whirling around, Nesta tried to source the voice but found only that endless stretch of deep velvet, and in the near distance, a towering shadow that rose up, up, up into the darkness until it blended into the canvas, like something disappearing into the clouds._

_Nesta made herself take stock. Made herself stand still. To dampen the terror and focus on that spiky, deep-set anger that still consumed her. Her back stiffened, her chin rose, and when she spoke for the first time with her new lungs, Nesta did not let her voice shake._

_She clenched her fists until her new nails bit into the meat of her palms._ _“Where am I?”_

_A sensual laugh as smooth as marble echoed around her — perfectly rendered. “Do you hear the wind? It moans your name, Nesta Archeron. Your twin can hear it. They’ve always been able to hear it. Your history written into the night sky where you only need join the dots. So easy to ignore until now.” A pause and Nesta felt that_ being _move. Her head snapped around as the voice mused from behind her, “And your destiny: a sacrifice and a gift in the same moment.”_

_Nesta tightened her fists in an effort to ground herself and willed herself to lean back into_ _that odd sense of_ being _rather than the fear that was making her heart race. She felt her nails break through her skin with a pop. She scented blood; metallic and salt. She was so cold she wanted to shake until her teeth chattered, but Nesta would not show weakness. She would not break down._

_So Nesta rose up tall and made her voice ice cold; strong rather than brittle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_Another long, sensual laugh. A caress akin to a brush stroking the softest of bristles over her skin. “No, you don’t,” the voice agreed. “Not yet. But you will.”_

_A moment in time stretched out, the pause pregnant and awesome. Then a soft light in the darkness above, growing in size: a fleck, a star, a luminescent ball of light…_

_“What do you want, Nesta Archeron?”_

_“I want revenge,” Nesta replied, her voice full of a sudden vigour as vengeance lashed out on a forked tongue._

_Again, more soft laughter that licked over Nesta’s body in a shiver. “You have already got that, have you not? Do you not feel that deathly power in your veins? That hum of primitive power that you have stolen, that has been woven into who you now are.”_

_“I will end him. I will end_ everyone _who has caused my sister harm.”_

_“Of that, I have no doubt. But what will that take from you?”_

_Hysterical laughter wanted to burst forth from Nesta’s lungs, as if she could only feel the sharpest of emotion and everything else were muted._

_“Everything has already been taken from me,” Nesta spat, balling her hands into harder fists, her nails digging into her crescent shaped wounds._

_Pain flared, fresh and sharp but Nesta paid it no heed. She was no stranger to pain and she would rally. Every. Damn. Time._

_The light above Nesta continued to grow until it became distinct; a fiery palm emerging out of the dark. Nesta did not flinch. Did not scream or back away. Did not bow or yield or grovel. She only let pearlescent fingers close around Nesta’s own, the touch like a near-scalding bath that settled only when your blood thrummed beneath raw, pink skin._

_“So much sacrifice,” the voice pondered, turning Nesta’s hand. Nesta’s fingers unfurled from her palm without her willing it, until her palm lay open, the half-crescent moons bloody tears in her otherwise new skin. “But what about a gift?” the voice asked. “A gift for the girl who lives with such anger and guilt. The girl who sees the world in all its terrible glory and feels too much. What do you say to that?”_

_“I only want revenge,” Nesta repeated, her mind assaulting her with images of Elain as she was pushed under the inky water, as she emerged drowning and wholly new — wrong._

_No laughter this time. Only that hand rising, fingers coming together until they were pointed and pinching something out of the dark._

_A pearl of pure light hovered millimetres from those shining fingers, as if it were attached by an invisible string. It sung with such radiant brilliance that Nesta wanted to look away: it was the pure, unfathomable brightness of a midnight star. A melody that sung of promise and hope._

_“What is revenge worth if it does not emerge from the desire to protect?” the voice asked, letting go of that drop of light. It did not fall like water; it floated down slowly, until it nestled in the crook of Nesta’s palm like a pearl that shimmered as it caught the light._

_Nesta remained deathly still, staring at the drop of possibility in her palm._

_“Revenge is choice, Nesta Archeron. It can be a wish for death and pain or to protect and defend.”_

_“Both,” Nesta said fiercely. “It can be both.”_

_“Multi-faceted and complex, as all decisions are,” the voice agreed. “And there are so many strands in you, aren’t there? Already you have felt one of them, although I do not think you have truly placed the puzzle pieces together. But here is another choice; something to cherish and use wisely on those who are worthy. Everything is cyclical. Day and night, birth and death, love and sacrifice…”_

_The luminescent hand closed Nesta’s palm, but rather than the drop of light bring dampened by shadow, it sank into Nesta’s skin, until it too became a part of her._

_“I don’t want a gift.”_

_But even as Nesta spoke she knew she did not truly mean it._

_She also knew it was too late. She felt her blood spike and thrum as that light channeled into her, twining around that deathly power that she had already stolen and forced into her remaking._

_A low hum vibrated the ground beneath Nesta’s feet. “Don’t want it or do not deserve it?”_

_And then Nesta was drowning again with such startling speed that she hadn’t the time to take a deep breath. Terror gripped her, and with it power sung in her blood, the sensation like boiling water, as if her very skin were bubbling with it even though that dark water bit with a cold akin to the fiercest frostbite._

_As if fear had summoned it, silver fire began to glow at Nesta’s palms. Water rushed into Nesta’s lungs and with it, that power surged._

_Up, up, up Nesta went, like an arrow unsheathed from a bow until the inky black was no longer concrete and colour swam on the surface._

_Everything tilted as the Cauldron tipped, jerking the water and Nesta out onto the cold flagstones of reality._

_Nesta took a desperate, ragged breath through the gag that was suddenly back around her mouth, and cast a look around the room: to Cassian who was sprawled unconscious on the ground, his arm outstretched and his wings in tatters; to Feyre who was kneeling in her own vomit tucked into Rhysand’s side..._

_And on her sister’s face, Nesta could see what she was: ravaging, deadly, awesome. A face and figure to stop males and females in their tracks. A face and figure that would make humans and fae alike think twice._

_But that was nothing of the forged steel in Nesta’s bones, in her blood, as she scrabbled across the floor to Elain on her long, unnatural limbs and tore the gag from her mouth._

_It was a steel that no-one could see but that they could all sense as Nesta locked eyes with the King of Hybern, that promise of death still swimming in those mercury eyes that moved._

_She would have her revenge. Of that, she was sure._

* * *

Nesta gasped. 

Her hands flailed, her body screamed with agony, her lungs were hoarse and raw, her abdomen set with a pain that went so deep she knew something was gravely wrong. 

And through her veins… no whisper of her magic. Not a drop.

It was that which made her thrash, her lungs suddenly unable to breathe from the agony that wrangled through her body.

She heard her name. Again and again; the high-pitched desperation of a female. Feyre. But then something much lower. A caress. A rumble that quelled her fear and kicked the breath back into her with a force that had her gasping.

Nesta’s hand found a rough, calloused palm across the mattress. Fingers curled unbelievably gently around hers. She heard the rustle of wings. Smelt pine and musk and the bracing fresh air of the Illyrian skies. 

“Nesta. You need to take your medicine. The morphine has worn off.”

Cassian. 

Even with her eyes submerged in the dark, Nesta knew that Cassian had turned his head to murmur something in low tones to her sister — her senses heightened in the wake of the fear that was still bitter on her tongue. 

Then light retreating footsteps. The click of a closed door.A large hand on her temple. A wet rag against her lips. Nesta opened her mouth despite the foul tasting tincture which burned her throat and flooded her tastebuds; swallowing it down, begging it to soothe over the pain which she could not describe for its wrongness, even though she had been told that she would heal. 

Frawley had come to visit her the last time Nesta had resurfaced. Had explained why she was there and what had happened. That Nesta had the gift of healing. That she had over-healed Mas's traumatic injuries and moved on to older ones. That she had sacrificed her wellness for someone else’s. That she would have died had Cassian not got her to stop.

Another power Nesta needed to train. As if she didn’t have enough to wrangle under control.

Nesta did not remember much after dropping to her knees at the widows camp. She remembered the click of a lock inside of her; the way her power had flipped from silver to startling, brilliant white. That she had known what to do as she lifted her hands over Mas and started to use her magic for something wholly good. 

_“What did you feel for your power came to the surface?”_ Frawley had asked before she took leave. 

Nesta had bitten back a whimper of agony as she shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. She had been swamped in heavy blankets and consumed in Cassian’s scent.  His bed not hers. But the scent of him… it comforted her. She was too tired to rally against it. Had woken knowing that she was immeasurably safe even though memory tried to persuade her that she was not.

Eventually, when she realised that Frawley’s second eye had come to rest on her along with ice blue, Nesta had supplied, “I felt grief.”

“And what else?” Frawley had urged, her ice blue eye glowing with intensity. 

Nesta had been too tired to answer. Her eyelids heavy from the sedative she had been given, despite the energising tea Frawley had administered to attempt to speed up the act of replenishing her magic. To fight the fatigue one felt when they had been drained of power.

And now she was waking again and Frawley was gone.

Braving the light, Nesta cracked open an eye. Her head throbbed, as if her brain were growing in her skull and it was pressing against bone.

Cassian was hovering over her, a crumpled frown twisting his brow as he dripped the medicine past her lips. He caught her eyes opening a fraction too late and she catalogued worry slide into relief before it was pushed back and a light was forced into those dark irises. When he smiled at her, it was too tight and anguished to ring true. She must have been in a bad way — very bad — for him to lose sight of his tendency to arrange his expression into that casual playfulness. For her sister to still be here, hovering by her bedside unsure how to act or how to behave. For her mate to be in the room next door, his star-blessed magic permeating Cassian’s bedroom even through stone and plaster and wood. She could even sense Azriel’s shadows moving like an agitated fog. 

No Amren. No Mor.

Something to be thankful for. 

“Mas?” she asked. Her throat was dry despite the tincture and the word came out scratchy and raw. 

Cassian pressed a glass of water to her lips. 

She drank.

“Mas has left to help relocate the widows and orphans,” Cassian told her. “I had her checked over by Madja and Frawley. She is perfectly fine. Roksana too,” he added when Nesta frowned. “Mas hasn’t flown yet,” he continued. “She wanted you to witness it.”

Something tightened around Nesta’s throat. It was not panic but… deep twisting affection for the housekeeper. It must be agony for Mas not to launch straight into the skies. Yet… Nesta was touched beyond imagining that she would wait for Nesta to witness something so precious. A moment in history that was not tainted in blood and death but _joy._

Cassian had paused as if he were checking himself. He had moved away from her, to the dark dresser to the left of the bed. There was a clink of glass which Nesta supposed was him stoppering the medicine. “I know you do not like it here and I understand that. You were given no choice and Illyria is…” he trailed off, as if he were searching for the right word. “It’s brutal, in both harsh reality and its beauty. But the widows and orphans… they will not forget what you have done for them — how you fought for them. Mas has been shackled in so many ways throughout her life, but her wings… You have given her freedom, Nesta. She will never forget that ,and neither will those females who witnessed you healing her.”

When Cassian turned back to look at Nesta, his eyes were glowing with such intensity she did not know what to say. He seemed to understand that, breaking their gaze to stare out of the window. 

It was snowing again. The scent of it was in the air and on Cassian’s clothes, from where Nesta imagined he’d been in the throng of it all, establishing order where there was chaos. She imagined that was why his family was here. 

“Azriel has some information about the kerits,” Cassian said. He remained staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the snow falling from the thin sheets of grey cloud strung in the sky. “About where we think they came from. We would like you to be a part of the discussion.” A pause. “If you would like to be, that is.”

Nesta held back a snort partly because she knew it would hurt too much. “I don’t think your High Lord wants me to be a part of any discussion.”

“Rhys specifically asked me to fetch you before we began,” Cassian replied, not flinching at her ice-sharp words. Nesta supposed he had become immune. “You are integral to the conversation.”

Noise caught in the back of Nesta’s throat. “I thought I was just a stain you all wished you could rid yourself of.”

No, not immune. Cassian flinched as if he had been burned, his wings spreading instinctively before he could catch them. He retracted them back in with a slow huff of anger. It was not a disparaging or exasperated sigh, more… defeated, as if it were a remark that brought him pain.

Still he did not turn to her. If anything, his focus became more intent on the scenery outside. At the bustle of Illyrians as they fought against the flurry of snow that promised to kiss everything white at the worst possible time. 

Cassian’s jaw feathered. “If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.”

Nesta blinked at the coarse words that held no lightness, no mockery, no teasing. That were honest and unhappy. Twisted with a rejection which hit her to the bone.

_You rejected me first,_ Nesta wanted to say, as she watched the taut muscles in Cassian’s back. They were vibrating with an energy that usually told Nesta that he needed to fight with his fists until his body was sated.

“We believe the attacks might be orchestrated,” Cassian continued. “Azriel went to scout the perimeter to see if there was any evidence. He has only just arrived back.” Finally, those amber eyes rested back on her. They were burning with a rage that had been purposefully dialled back, but Nesta knew how much Cassian cared about his people. “Will you come?” he asked.

Shock wound through Nesta at the confession. At the brutality of what Cassian was suggesting. Anger spiked through the exhaustion with such ferocity her magic should have been roaring, but it only remained quiet. Yet… a determination solidified in her mind. She did want to be a part of the conversation. Not just to be useful, but because Nesta cared about the widows and orphans. She longed to hold Roksana close and see Mas fly. To lay the dead to rest, to check in on the injured. To see if she could use her healing magic to mend their wounds. To show that she was not an observer but a fighter - a protector. That she would lay her life on the line to protect the females who had nothing and were helpless against every threat, just as she had once been.

She did not say all that. Instead, she just said, “Fine.”

A short nod as if Cassian understood. “We can do it in here or out there.” Cassian jerked his chin to the living room. “Frawley said you are not to move if it can be helped, but something tells me you’d sooner have died than be crowded on your sick bed.”

There. A small lace of lightness that had not been there before. Forced, maybe, but there all the same.

Nesta scowled. “You thought rightly.”

“It will hurt,” Cassian warned her. “For me to lift you.”

“Then do it gently.”

A soft snicker as he moved off the many, _many_ blankets, and then strong, corded arms slid beneath her body. 

Cassian’s voice was rough in her ear. “You’re the most stubborn female I’ve ever met.”

Gritting her teeth, Nesta tried to overcome the sharp, deep-set pain that made her want to cry out. 

The way Cassian gathered her to him was pain-achingly careful but it was still too much, her wounds too fresh and Nesta gasped a high-pitched cry, digging her fingers so hard into his tunic that she knew they must have bitten into the skin of his shoulders. Cassian did not indicate that she had hurt him, he only cradled her closer to the hard planes of his body, his huge wing curving around her as if he could partition off the pain and keep her safe.

The glow of the membrane was not unlike that of rusty, glowing embers. Beautiful.

Cassian remained stock still, waiting for the pain to ebb and then, slowly, as if he were hesitant to do it, his forehead came to rest on the top of her head; a bowing gesture that was almost like a confession, folding her into a protective cocoon that smelt of pine resin and warmth.

If Nesta could move without crying out, she would have traced a finger down his wing, following the spider webs of his capillaries. She had never had the opportunity to study them this close up. They were as mesmerising as fire flames as they danced their way up into the sky; as captivating as woodsmoke as it were tossed about on a breeze.

“I thought you were going to die.”

Cassian’s voice was a low, deep rumble that she felt in the pit of her stomach. In her bones. In her heart. 

“Not yet,” she replied drily, but the hoarse words were muffled by the embrace.

She knew what he was trying to say. Had felt it before. The way in which history had tied the two of them together. Had made them terrified not just of dying, but without the other. An immeasurable panic that clawed at her throat and tore at her lungs. 

To end up on death’s door without her lying over him was unimaginable. They had vowed to go together and even now, when they were separate rather than entwined, she would still lay her body over his broken one and refuse to live. 

“Don’t say that,” Cassian clipped, his voice suddenly sharp. Broken.

Even though it hurt to move, Nesta rolled her head to press against his chest, shifting his forehead so it was lower, his lips almost brushing her skin. Nesta could not bring it in herself to care. Cassian smelt just as his sheets had — pine, musk and untamed air. Comforting.

Hesitantly, as if she had surprised him, Cassian’s large hand came to cup her head. 

For a moment, they stayed like that, until the burning question that had hung in the back of her mind became too much. “Why am I in your room?” she asked.

“I had to put Mas in your bed,” Cassian confessed. She felt him smile small against her — a promise of mischief. “It’s not the way I imagined I’d first have you beneath my sheets, but I guess I should just be thankful you’re alive.”

A quiet snarl from Nesta had Cassian lifting his head to laugh. The sound was a low rasp which did not hold its usual vigour.

He was still worried. She could feel it. The sensation was relentless as a crashing tide.

“Reign in your worry,” Nesta snapped weakly. “I can feel it and it’s making me nauseous.”

Another laugh, stronger this time, and then Cassian’s emotion vanished, as if it had been carried away on a sea-kissed breeze.

“I’m going to move now,” he informed her. “Best brace yourself for the pain, sweetheart.”

It was agony. The pain so awfully deep that Nesta could hardly breathe, even as Cassian moved as smoothly as possible. She wanted to cry out, to whimper, but she would not show weakness in front of her sister’s mate.

By the time she was settled on the couch, Nesta had broken that vow; distressed sounds escaping through gritted teeth as she panted desperately for breath. With a click of Rhys's fingers, the nest of blankets that Nesta had been swaddled in appeared on the couch, just in time for Cassian to lower her onto the cushions.

Nesta did not have it in herself to be angered that Rhys had helped.

At the sound of her sister's stifled shouts, Feyre rushed out of the kitchen. She was holding a steaming mug in her hands, which Cassian plucked from his High Lady and planted straight into Nesta’s palms. 

Feyre allowed him to do it without a word of protest, anxiously wringing her hands as she studied what Nesta imagined to be her too pale face, the sweat that had broken out on her forehead…

They had not spoken properly since the attack, but Feyre had been there, hovering on the periphery; anxious and sick with worry that she did not know assaulted Nesta until she too became nauseous with it. Nesta’s icy guard had been down since she had dropped to her knees beside Mas, and she hadn’t the power to stack it back up. Not when she was as exhausted as she was, her power utterly diminished and her body focussing on healing.

Finally casting a glance around the room, Nesta saw that the flames in the log burner were raging mute. She wondered who had magicked them to become silent. She hoped it was Frawley rather than Rhysand. 

Rhys was positioned to the right of the fireplace, and when Nesta’s gaze purposefully passed over him as if he were little more than part of the furniture, she felt his violet eyes flick to her, his expression no doubt hard and unyielding. But Nesta was too tired to battle today. 

Cassian was watching her too, glaring with such intensity at her hands that Nesta was surprised they hadn’t moved involuntarily to raise the mug to her lips. Wanting him to stop, Nesta took a slow sip of tea even though it hurt to swallow. It didn’t work; those hazel eyes remaining unwaveringly fixated. He was standing right by her head, scrutinising everything she did, his wings spread as if he were contemplating launching into flight. 

Nesta wanted to hiss at him, but then Feyre sat close beside her, and that made her want to hiss more.

At his place to the left of the hearth, Azriel’s lips twitched. He had been standing as still as a statue, like marble carved out of the finest stone, his shadows stolid, but now he shifted to face her. 

Nesta guessed the shadowsinger could sense her emotions with her guard down completely. 

She supposed there had to be a first. 

When Nesta took the last sip of her drink, Cassian’s hands were immediately there, taking it from her, his siphons winking in the firelight. Nesta barely noticed. She only felt an overwhelming sense of relief at the first whisper of silver and brilliant white that twisted through her veins like two coiled serpents; intertwined yet separate.

Easing backwards with the intention of settling into the cushions, Nesta tried to ignore the pain that suddenly stabbed through her as her stomach muscles tensed. A sharp gasp escaped her, her breath knocked out of her lungs, but then cool, shadowed hands gripped Nesta’s shoulders. They took the weight off of her abdomen, slowly lowering her backwards until she was resting comfortably. 

Behind her, Nesta heard Cassian’s wings snap in and out, clearly agitated at her pain.

When Nesta turned her head to Azriel, he dipped his head to her in acknowledgement. Black tendrils of shadow whispered back to him, curling around his arms and face, waiting patiently to be bent again to their master's will.

Then the shadowsinger turned to Rhys, as if seeking the order to begin. 

“Thank you for joining us, Nesta,” Rhys said tightly. “Especially given the circumstances.”

Nesta did not reply, could not find it in herself to do it, but she finally stared at their High Lord with unflinching determination. 

As always, Rhys was irritatingly immaculate, leaning against the hearth as if he owned it. Already Nesta felt like he was tainting her space — her sanctuary — and although she wanted to spit at him to leave and not come back, she only gave a stiff nod. 

It would appear both of them were going to be forced today. Circumstances that were greater than their feud were at work, and neither of them was going to be petty enough to undermine that.

“Feyre allowed me to view her memory of the kerits attack,” Rhys said. “Three males flew over the mountain minutes before it happened. They can’t have been a part of the usual patrol as they weren’t doing the scheduled circuit. Instead, they flew straight over the mountain pass. Do you remember that?”

Nesta frowned, reaching back into the far depths of her memory… The three dots that coursed across the sky, the winking flash of silver from steel.

Sharply, Nesta craned her head to look at Cassian, not thinking of her injuries. She gasped. The movement had twisted her abdomen in a way she was not ready for. 

Cassian’s large hands fell briefly to her shoulders before he moved to perch on the left of the U-shaped couch, close to the corner where he had lain her down. 

“Ragar—” she started.

But Cassian only shook his head, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his broad thighs. His wings were held in high and tight to his spine. “Accounted for,” he told her. “And his friends. They were in the sparring rings with Devlon and countless other witnesses.” 

His smile was grim. “It’s one of the first thing I checked,” he confessed. “But it made us start to wonder if perhaps the attacks have been orchestrated. One attack can be passed off as a freak accident, but three attacks across three different camps is suspicious, especially given that kerits do not venture into populated areas.”

Nesta’s expression sharpened. “You think somebody purposefully led those beasts to the widows camp?”

Rhys’s nodded. “We think it’s a possibility.” He pinned his brother with those violet eyes. “What did you find scouring the perimeter, Az?”

The shadowsinger’s expression did not physically change, but Nesta felt his shadows chill. “Carrion,” he said coldly. “A trail of it leading to the mountain pass. Morsels of it. Not enough to feed a starving pack, but deliberate enough to tempt them out of the depths of the mountains.”

“This winter has been especially punishing,” Cassian interjected. “I bet food supply has been scarce. They struggle to survive as it is. The sounds they made as they hunted probably alerted other packs who joined the hunt.”

Feyre sat forward so she was hovering on the edge of the couch. “That would be why they were so vicious. They knew they were competing with other packs for food.”

Nesta’s stomach turned as she thought of how the widows and orphans had been seen as as a meal. How they had huddled to the Eastern point of the camp with nowhere to go and no means of defending themselves.

“The carrion was well hidden,” Azriel continued with a nod, his voice as smooth as cold marble. “Frawley examined the remains. They weren’t killed with siphon magic and there were no visible wounds to the bodies. We also found boot prints in the mud; different prints ranging in size in two separate locations within a miles range of the camp. They were fresh.” 

Everyone’s expression tightened. 

Nesta didn’t ask if the carrion was human or animal. She didn’t want to know.

“Frawley has taken samples to analyse them,” Azriel added. “She said she will show her sisters, as well. To see if they can sense an insignia.”

“So that means the attack was orchestrated,” Feyre said. “Someone deliberately led those beasts to the camp?”

Rhys nodded. “The attack was certainly pre-meditated,” he replied, pinning Cassian with a look. “The real question is _who_ would arrange an attack on three separate camps.”

Cassian snorted. “You know what the lords are going to say. What _all_ of the Illyrian’s at Windhaven are going to say.”

“That it’s an attack from another war camp,” Azriel supplied, his voice chilled midnight. 

“War lords usually have no issue in taking responsibility if they played a part in an attack,” Rhys countered.

“I know that,” Cassian interjected, impatience lining his voice. “So will the lords when they stop to see sense, but the moment we tell them that we suspect wrong doing, all hell will break loose. We can’t afford to lose any more lives to petty feuds. We’re still reeling from the loss of males since the war and the Rite is already looming over the camp.”

Rhys nodded to show he had heard. Nesta wondered if he mourned the loss of lives like Cassian did. The High Lord looked tired, as if he had been torn away from his mate for too long. Yet nobody looked as ravaged as Cassian did. Nesta did not know if his brothers knew of his recurring nightmares, but she hoped they learnt of them. Sometimes Cassian looked so exhausted that Nesta vibrated with a concern she could not shake. In the past, she had bitten her lip one too many times to prevent herself from ordering him to go to bed.

Nesta knew how awful it was to force someone to do something they desperately wanted but were too fearful to surrender themselves to.

“We will manage the lords,” Rhys assured Cassian. “We can decide how we are going to play that consul, but for now, we need to get to the bottom of how the kerits managed to get past Windhaven’s patrols. You and I both know how meticulous Devlon is when it comes to security around the camp. Those males shouldn't have been able to pass over the camp without being stopped by the warriors on patrol.”

“Whoever they were, they must have known that Cassian wasn't going to be in the camp today,” Azriel offered, the spymaster in him coming to the forefront. “The only good news is that they clearly had no idea that  both Feyre and Nesta would be at the top of the mountain and able to fight. And," he added after a beat of consideration, "they certainly underestimated Nesta’s ability to slay the pack if she _had_ been alone today.”

If Nesta hadn’t been white from pain, she would have had to freeze the blush that dared to grace her cheeks at the shadowsinger’s compliment.

An abrupt snort came from Cassian. When he spoke, his voice was brimming with anger, “Of course they underestimated Nesta. Even though they have witnessed her fire daily and sensed the enormity of her magic, they still can't fathom that a female could be more powerful than them. It has to be Illyrian’s at the root of it. Only they would be chauvinistic enough to fail to see what is right in front of them.”

“Which,” Rhys interjected, “has worked unwittingly in our favour. Rather than fuel hatred towards the Night Court and cement the growing opinion that we do not protect the Illyrian community, we had two High Fae slaughtering the pack well before any warriors arrived on the scene. And then Nesta brought Masak back to life — someone who the Illyrian males in this camp do not see as worthy to live amongst them.”

Through the exhaustion, anger heated Nesta’s blood. She felt her magic whisper. If Nesta looked inward, she could see the two strands. Could now sense the promise of healing magic in her veins amongst her silver fire. As if she had been granted the key in the face of Mas’s death and she had turned it over in the lock, setting that power free.

Yet, even as Nesta grazed that healing power, it was her silver fire that promised to roar.

“I didn’t do it to stop a Civil War. I did it to protect the females who cannot protect themselves,” Nesta snapped weakly. She was too tired to muster enough vigour into her words, but she was annoyed at the false implication behind her actions. That she had not done it out of love for the housekeeper, but because of politics. 

“That may be,” Rhys said, his voice forcibly light, “and what you did was honourable, but we cannot ignore how the Illyrian’s might interpret the action.”

“What Rhys is trying to say,” Azriel interjected smoothly as Nesta’s nostrils flared, “is that the females already respect you. The way you defended them today will not strengthen the dissent, only highlight that there are fae outside of the Illyrian communities who have their best interests at heart. You, for example.”

“You know they like you,” Cassian said quietly. He did not look at Nesta. Instead, he remained fixated at the hands that were clasped tightly in front of him, his elbows resting on his broad knees. “You know they have accepted you since you defended them against the males.”

“I protect them because nobody else seems to bother,” Nesta said coldly. “How many innocent females died because of the cruel intentions of males today? How many were injured?”

“Thirteen dead, thirty plus injured,” Cassian told Nesta quietly. “It would have been many more if you and Feyre not been there. You moved so quickly you managed to slay the majority of the packs before they reached the females.”

Nesta’s expression hardened as she thought of the trailing guts that had glistened in the grey light of day; the way Roksana’s hands had slipped in Mas’s wet, sticky blood, and how she had croaked for help. Her first word aloud since Nesta had met her.

“That is still too many,” Nesta insisted, her voice betraying her — shaking with the anger and horror of it all. “Why would they target the widows first? Why not lead the kerits down the other side of the mountain pass where they would could reach the main camp and weaken Windhaven’s forces?”

“Perhaps the kerits were never intended to weaken Windhaven’s ranks at all,” Rhys mused. “Perhaps they were intended to prove a point.”

A shocked, prolonged pause. 

“Are you saying,” Nesta said, her voice shaking, “that you think the rebellion could have orchestrated the attacks. That they might have specifically targeted the defenceless females because widows are seen as disposable, but their deaths would be enough to fuel dissent amongst the camps?”

Rhys stared at Nesta for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side, in the same way that Cassian’s did when he was trying to puzzle her out. But Nesta barely saw it. All she saw was the twisted body of the kind cook who had fed Nesta every morning… Of lovely Durkhanai, with her beautiful curly hair and bright green eyes. A female who had been dealt the harshest of fates. She had not deserved her end. None of the females had. 

Feyre’s hand crept over the blankets to Nesta’s. Her sister’s slim fingers wrapped around her own. “Surely they wouldn’t kill their own race?” Feyre said, her voice shaking. Nesta wondered if she, too, was thinking of the discarded limbs and pools of blood. “There were children in that camp. The females didn’t even have weapons…” 

But her sister did not understand just how harsh the camps were. Unlike Nesta, Feyre had not lived amongst the widows for months. She did not know just how willing the Illyrian’s might be to offer the widows camp as a sacrifice for the sake of politics. 

“I would not put it past Illyrian’s to see widows as a necessary sacrifice,” Rhys admitted eventually after a long, pregnant pause. His violet eyes had softened with grief. “If this is orchestrated by the rebellion, I suspect that by targeting the widows camps Kallon was hoping to fuel the anger amongst the Illyrian’s that they are not protected. That the Night Court does not care for Illyrian’s and offers them no protection. The widows would have been seen as a necessary sacrifice. They are outcasts in Illyrian society with no families to mourn their deaths.”

A ringing sounded in Nesta’s ears. The noise tuned out the room around her. It took her a while to realise that it was fury. It _burned._ It was not hot, but cold - enough to give her frostbite - as if her magic was not replenished enough to fly but was trying its best to rally itself. Inside of her chest, something cracked. It sounded like bone. With it, came creeping fingers of light, reaching towards her... 

With all her strength, Nesta clamped down... until shadows ate away the approaching light and the room righted itself.

When she came to, Cassian was growling low in warning, his wings stretching as far as they could without hitting her square in the face. At who, Nesta did not know. Did not care for his territorial display when there were bigger matters to discuss.

“And why isn’t there protection?” she asked.

Nesta’s words were as cold as the chill in her veins. Rhys stilled, and with it, his magic trembled. The growl was still rumbling from low in Cassian’s chest — deeper even — and he sat forward, bracing his weight onto his thighs as if he were getting ready to launch himself at… someone. Nesta wasn’t sure who. 

Feyre was still gripping Nesta’s hand tight, her grip firm enough to hurt. If Nesta had cast a look to her sister’s face, she would have seen that tell-tale glaze over Feyre’s eyes. It was the kind of far off look which told Nesta that her sister was speaking to her mate mind-to-mind. Or trying to, at least. 

“Why was there no protection around each of the Illyrian camps given that there had already been two kerit attacks?” Nesta continued, ignoring the rumbling sound that had her heart wanting to beat that little bit faster. “I have seen the protective shields the fae used in war — around your City of Starlight. Why is that courtesy not extended to the Illyrian communities?”

A long, drawn out silence of star-kissed eternal and a whisper of ancient silver.

“I have offered protection numerous times to each of the war lords,” Rhys replied eventually, his voice too measured to be casual. “Each of them have turned it down. They see it as a criticism on their duty as warriors to protect and defend.”

Nesta’s snort was harsh but the hard quality to her eyes did not change. “They are stubborn Illyrian bats. Get them to change their minds. Or are you not their High Lord?”

A flicker of amusement passed across Azriel’s face, his shadows lightening the sharp, beautiful angles of his face. “Nesta is right,” he said, causing everyone to turn. “The war lords don’t have the luxury of turning down our help when it looks as if there will be more kerit attacks. There shouldn’t have been a gap in today’s patrol. Windhaven has always prided itself on its security — all the camps do. Have we found the soldiers who should have been patrolling the perimeter? I think it wise to consider that they may have been compromised by whoever tempted the kerits to the camps. Recruited, even. They could well be the males that flew over the mountain pass.”

“Nobody can find them,” Cassian growled. “We have males out looking for them as we speak. As soon as they are found we will interrogate them.”

“Cassian and I will interrogate,” Rhys told Azriel as a rare flicker of surprise fell across the shadowsinger's expression. “I need you to visit your most trusted contacts in the camps and tell them that we believe the attacks might not be random. We need all eyes and ears to the ground to find out as much as we can, not least to anticipate where the next attack might be.”

A tense nod, but Azriel folded into shadow and disappeared. 

Cassian’s fists curled into fists on the tops of his thighs. “We need evidence. We cannot assume this is the rebellion without it.”

“Of course not,” Rhys admitted smoothly. “Which is why we need you to try and snuff out as much information as you can when you and Nesta go to the Solstice luncheon next week. Accept the offer to stay overnight.”

Nesta hadn’t thought Cassian’s expression could turn any stonier, but it did. “No.”

“The more time you spend at Ironcrest, the longer Nesta has to pick up any untoward emotion, especially surrounding conversation about the camps. It gives Frawley time to look and identify the origin of the sword, and it gives you and Lorrian time to pry out any information. Insist on you and Lorrian overseeing the aerial and ground units that next morning, it will ease away any suspicion. A trip there is long overdue but it is time to act on this rather than gathering information, which we have been doing up until now.”

Cassian blew out a long, steadying breath. Then he conceded,  “With the Rite meeting been moved forward to that afternoon, it shouldn’t be hard to extend our stay."

Rhys nodded. “Good.” Then his violet eyes rested on Nesta. “You are willing to go with Cassian?”

A raised chin. Defiant. Strong. Despite the pain and exhaustion that wanted to pull her down, down, down. “Yes.”

“Then we have a plan,” Rhys said with another nod. “Azriel will continue to train you. If he is not available,  I will travel to the camps and train you myself .”

At the edge of her periphery, Nesta saw Feyre’s eyes widen. In her stomach, Nesta felt Cassian’s surprise, a sensation which grew as Rhys said,  “Welcome to the Court of Dreams, Nesta Archeron.”

* * *

  
By the time the meeting was over, Nesta was drained; her eyelids unbelievably heavy, her limbs aching. She desperately wanted to sleep, so she took the tincture Feyre brought her without comment and didn’t protest when Cassian carried her back to his bed rather than hers; agony fogged the rational part of her brain.

She was practically asleep as Cassian lay her onto his mattress. She felt his fingers coax hers away from where they were clutching his leathers. Blankets were pulled over her, the weight a comfort. A sedative was dripped into her mouth. 

And then she slipped under. 

When Nesta next woke, the taste was still bitter in her mouth but the room was dark; the light having receded even from the gap between the curtains.

In the armchair beside her bed was Feyre, her feet curled up beneath her and her freckled nose buried in _Love in Velaris._ A bobbing faelight hung overhead, willed by her sister’s magic. It illuminated the pages. 

From the dent Feyre had made in the book, Nesta guessed she had been asleep for hours. Beyond the room, the bungalow sat still — the way it did when Cassian was not home — as if it too were sleeping, waiting for its owner to come back and breathe life into the rooms with his presence. 

A few seconds passed until Feyre noticed that Nesta was awake. It gave Nesta enough time to catalogue the concern etched on her sister’s pale face; the tight expression which made Feyre’s sharp cheekbones even more prominent. 

Nesta did not usually see the similarities between them, but now, as Feyre’s serious steel-blue eyes snapped up at the rustle of blankets, Nesta knew why others had said they looked alike. 

“You’re awake.” Feyre spoke slowly — unsure — as she unfurled her long, lithe legs. When Nesta winced as she tried to get into a more comfortable position, Feyre jumped up and moved to the dresser. “Here,” she said, pouring some tincture onto a silver spoon.

Nesta hated the way she needed assistance to lift her head, but she allowed Feyre to do it in a rush of pear and lilac. Nesta was not proud enough to deny that she needed the tincture to smooth away the pain. And whilst the pain wasn’t as agonising as hours prior, it was deep-set enough for Nesta to consider whether she could persuade Feyre to allow her to swallow down the whole damn bottle.

After some water to chase down the foul taste, Feyre stepped back. “How are you feeling? Frawley seemed to think she could speed up the healing Madja did, but you were so sick…” Her sister trailed off, setting back to examine Nesta’s face. “You look a little less pale...”

“I’m fine,” Nesta said hoarsely.

Feyre opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if she were contemplating what best to say. The action annoyed Nesta. She wanted to be alone and quiet. To fall back asleep and wake when the pain was gone and she no longer felt helpless.

“Don’t you have duties to attend to?” Nesta asked tiredly, turning her face to bury it into one of the pillows. It was a few seconds reprieve to calm the irritation that had started to hum through her.

Slowly, Nesta breathed in the scent of pine, musk and air that was so fierce Nesta felt as if she were almost a part of it. She had no doubt this was the pillow Cassian rested his head on. The scent soothed her, smoothing over that spiky, dangerous anger of hers to leave bone-lead weariness in its place.

“I wanted to be here,” Feyre told her. There was a subtle stubborn lift to her chin that Nesta knew Feyre had copied from her at a young age so many times that it had now become a part of who she was. “I wanted to look after you. To make sure that you were healing.”

“Well, I don’t need you to take care of me. You heard it yourself, I should be out of bed tomorrow. I just need to sleep.”

Nesta had intended to say it icily, but she was not well enough to muster the strength. 

Feyre’s expression tightened, and for a moment, Nesta thought she might snap. But then she just straightened with determination; her tall, lean body rising to a height that called for attention. “Then let me say what I want to say and I will leave you alone.”

A long, stony silence and a blank, impenetrable mask that Nesta hoped with desperation conveyed the message she wanted to snap: _Go away._

Instead, Feyre seated herself on the armchair and reached for Nesta’s ice-cold hand. “Nesta,” she started, the word practically a plea. “I know you and I - I know that our relationship has always been rocky. And you are right, there are many things that I hadn’t considered, not least when I sent you here. But… you almost died today and it’s made me realise what is important: I love you. I don’t think I’ve told you that before, but I always have. Even when we were younger and we were both so angry and bitter at our lot in life and we spent our days fighting. And I know you love me, too. Hiring someone to take you to the wall to find me told me that…”

Feyre let out a long, shaky breath and when she next spoke, her voice turned softer, dropping into a confession, “I forgave you and Elain a long time ago for when we were starving, Nesta. I want you to know that. I don’t — we were children. It was father that failed us, not you. I never saw it as your job to care for me and… I’m sorry that you were there when mother asked me to take care of you…. That must have been a horrible thing to overhear and… well, I would have felt resentment towards me, too, if I were you.”

More silence. Nesta would not allow herself to speak for the barbed words she knew would spill forth. About her sister’s mate and how whilst Nesta had tried to make amends, Rhysand’s obvious dislike of her had not disappeared with Feyre’s supposed forgiveness.

“I also want you to know that what you did in the war — you saved hundreds of lives. I know you witnessed unimaginable death and horror, but fae and humans are walking on Prythian because you struck down the male that promised to wreak havoc on our world. You did all of that and I never thought to thank you. And then I was so swept away by my duties as High Lady and recovering from Rhys’s near death that I did not give you the time I should have-”

Such careful tiptoeing around their father’s death. How Nesta had watched the life bleed out of his eyes, until they were nothing but glassy and wholly unconscious.

It was that which made Nesta cut her sister off. Even now, she had no desire to discuss his death. “I am not a burden you need to add to your list of priorities. I didn’t want your help. I explicitly told you to go away and instead you continued to force me to socialise when all I wanted was to be alone.”

Feyre let go of Nesta’s hand. Something akin to loss flashed through Nesta, piercing through the exhaustion and the pain in her abdomen.

“I think communication has always been an issue for us,” Feyre admitted, not backing down from the conversation. “I have spent time thinking over what you have said and you are right, I have not truly listened to you. But I was so scared for your safety I adopted drastic measures—”

“It is not your place to decide what is best for me,” Nesta said coldly. “I am not yours to command. And,” she continued with as much iciness as she could muster, “I do not think that an Illyrian camp is a place of safety.”

A deliberate pause to highlight how she were in bed suffering from major injuries. 

“I thought if you were with Cassian that you would be protected,” Feyre said, her expression anguished. “I thought if anyone were to hold their own in an Illyrian camp it would be you. You are so strong, Nesta—”

“You thought a fae male could protect me when the protection I was promised by males has failed over and over again?” Nesta countered. “He is not even here all of the time. Sometimes he is away for days on end and I am left alone. You banished me to this awful place in front of an audience with no care for my feelings.”

But as Nesta spoke, something scrabbled in the back of her mind. Because it wasn’t fair to criticise Cassian for both leaving her and crowding her. Because Cassian had given her space and yet he had also been there, on the periphery if not right in front of her. Taunting her and encouraging her, but with so much space to grow. He had not made her train with him, dragging her spitting and screaming into the sparring ring. He had not thrown her out into the camp each morning and forced her to work or make friends. He had given her choices that she had more often than not denied over and over. And when she had done that, he had bought her more books or figured out the foods she liked to make the days a little less boring. 

Cassian had not just protected her but allowed her to grow stronger. Had given her the space to decide for once in her life what she wanted to do and what she wanted to be. True, she might have been stuck in Windhaven, but she had never felt truly trapped. The skies made her feel unencumbered. The mud beneath her feet rendered her a part of nature rather than apart from it. The craggy mountains were a physical depiction of how Nesta was starting to see herself; sharp and angry but resilient and strong. 

Outside the bungalow, Nesta heard the unmistakable crunch of boots in the snow. The low murmur of male voices floated through the bedroom window, which had been cracked open to circulate the stale air. 

Feyre’s face crumpled in sudden irritation, and Nesta guessed that her mate had tried to speak mind-to-mind with her mid-conversation. From the way Feyre’s expression quickly cleared, Nesta got the impression she had banished Rhys completely or told him to go away.

The click of the magical lock from the front door rang through the bungalow, but Feyre’s attention was only on her. “Adjusting to the role of High Lady has been… a struggle,” her sister admitted. “Cassian, Rhys, Amren and Mor are my friends as well as my trusted advisors. But you are right, I spoke to you as a High Lady not as a sister when I told you to come here. I thought that using my new status would make you listen because my role as a sister had failed. It was a last resort and I knew… I knew that Cassian would look after you.” 

Feyre stared up at the ceiling, as if the memory caused her pain. “As soon as you left I knew the way I had summoned you was wrong.” Feyre looked back to Nesta and sincerity swam in her eyes. “I did not consider that I had imprisoned you. I was selfishly only thinking of forcing you to be well.”

More silence. 

Feyre got to her feet, her expression pained. 

She waved a hand to the window, gesturing to the scenery outside. To the craggy mountains that stretched for miles and the sea beyond it. To the world that existed beyond Illyria. Beyond Prythian. “When you are healed, if you wish to leave Illyria you can. I don’t want you to feel imprisoned any longer.”

There was a finality to the words that rang true. Her sister meant them, even if it was obvious they caused her pain.  Yet… Nesta did not want to leave. Not now, not when she had promised to attend the Solstice luncheon to see what they could discover about the sword and the kerit attacks. Not when the females here were so vulnerable. Now when they needed help rebuilding their community — to mourn for the losses that Nesta had vowed would not go unnoticed. 

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

Feyre halted at the door. 

“And your help is invaluable,” Feyre said slowly, “but you are not obligated to do it. So if you wish to leave, you can. Just… please tell someone before you do and let us know where you are going.” 

Feyre looked weary and Nesta wondered if she had even bathed since everything that had happened. Her body was clean like Nesta’s… but her leathers were crumpled and her hair dishevelled. Nesta’s own body felt like it was covered in a film of oil and invisible dirt. Her skin itched at the thought and she longed for a bath, even though she knew she would not be able to manage it without more rest.

When Nesta closed her eyes, Feyre’s blood-streaked face swam into view. She remembered how Feyre had gripped her hand in the midst of battle and told Nesta to lead the way to the Eastern side of the camp, even though they were in the thick of danger. Her sister had not hesitated or balked. She had only been fierce and unwaveringly brave, ready to put her life on the line for those who needed protection. 

For all of their problems, when the two of them had been fighting side by side, it was the first time that Nesta felt as if she truly belonged with her sister. For a brief moment in time, their issues and past mistakes had bled away, as if they were inconsequential. 

“I’d love for us to start afresh,” Feyre continued quietly from her place at the door. “We have both made errors, but I do not care about yours. I hope that with time you might be able to forgive me, and if you do, I’d like to start over, you and I, with a blank slate.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely readers,
> 
> Thank you for everybody who commented on last weeks chapter and for those of you who fed back to say you would keep on reading E&L after ACOSF. It's great to know I can continue at my own pace, especially as work is about to pick up for me so it would be hard to write more than I have been already.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. And for those of you who enjoyed my fic Habits, I have written another fic in the same universe, called Wings, Flames and Shadows which you can find under my profile. It's very smutty, but a nice, long read of angst and Nessian softness, too.
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter :) And as usual, apologies for my typos!

** Chapter Twenty-Five  
Nesta **

Nesta barely heard the sound of the door opening and shutting as Feyre left. Neither did she truly register the murmur of voices or the sensation of power vacuuming into nothing as Rhys and Feyre winnowed back to Velaris.

Feyre’s words had cracked her open again, and all Nesta wanted was to sleep so she didn’t have to think about her sister or the errors of her own past. Of the forgiveness her sister had granted her which she did not think she deserved. How her sister had offered a slate wiped clean, something that Nesta had secretly hungered for so long she couldn’t even pinpoint when it had started.

It was a chance to begin again, if Nesta wanted it. Or the chance to draw a line under everything and leave entirely. 

A choice, either way.

Everything Feyre had said had been true. Nesta had felt her sister’s honesty in her stomach laced with her sister’s scent — pear and lilac. But was Nesta ready to forgive her sister? Seeing her sister curled up in the armchair — stationary rather than moving, the world still — made everything hurt. But when they had been in the midst of action, when together they had fought side-by side, a team rather than two opposing forces, Nesta had felt whole. 

Another wave of tiredness washed over Nesta. She was too drained to contemplate it further, so she allowed the exhaustion to tug her down, down, down with both of its strong hands. She allowed her body to mould into the mattress, surrendering to the comforting weight of the midnight blue duvet and the woollen blankets.

Nesta dipped in and out of a sleep infused with pine and musk. Her pointed ears picked up the sounds of someone moving about the house, the bedroom door as it opened. She felt large hands on her forehead. The dip of the mattress. Heard the rustle of wings. 

At one point, she had cracked open an eye to see a tent of red umber. Felt the ghosting warmth of a body and soft, even breathing before she slipped back under. 

She had nightmares and vivid dreams. At first it was lifeless eyes, cracked wings, screams and blood. But then she saw her mother at the breakfast table, pouring herself a cup of tea. Her father returning from a long absence, his hair smelling of sea salt as he picked Nesta up in a hug. Nesta saw a younger Feyre, her face full of innocence and youth as Nesta read to her, a book of fairytales lying across her skirts. And Elain, brushing Nesta’s hair in front of a cracked mirror, the strands a dull, brittle brown in the weak firelight… 

When she woke the next morning, Nesta was still tired but the pain in her abdomen had been dialled back, gnawing quietly rather than roaring. 

Cassian was not there. 

Wincing, Nesta eased herself into a sitting position just as Mas bustled into the room with Roksana in tow, the latter carrying some dusky blue snowdrops in her chubby hands.

Setting down the tray she had been carrying on the bed, Mas moved to open the curtains. Beyond the deep-set window was a stretch of luminescent white snow and a sliver of startling blue sky, the colour you usually saw in paintings rather than in real life. The Illyrian sky still took Nesta’s breath away, the colours brushed across its canvas so vibrant that Nesta knew that anywhere else would seem dull in comparison.

Roksana started to clamber onto the bed, her small wings stretching as they prepared to launch her into flight, but Mas caught her before her feet could leave the ground. “No you don’t, little youngling,” Mas tutted, placing Roksana firmly back on her feet. “Tuck those wings back in and show Lady Nesta what you have brought her.”

Shyly, Roksana stuck out her hand to show Nesta the flowers and said in Illyrian, “Ecce.”

Nesta did not allow her eyes to widen as Roksana spoke, but she allowed a her lips to tug upwards. She had picked up enough Illyrian to understand the youngling: _Here._

“Thank you,” Nesta told the little girl sincerely as she took them from her clenched fist. “Pulchra.”

Nesta darted a look at Mas to check she had said the word ‘beautiful’ correctly and Mas nodded as she kissed Roksana on the cheek and tickled her belly. 

“What do you say, sinta?” she asked the youngling.

But that seemed to be the limit of Roksana’s conversation. A shy blush stained her tan cheeks and she stubbornly shook her head, her tangled hair moving.

Mas shot Nesta an apologetic smile but Nesta shrugged it off with a small smile of her own. One word had been enough to make the whole of Illyria that little bit brighter. She longed to give the girl a hug, but she had yet to test the range of her movement given yesterday’s injuries.

“How are you feeling?” Mas asked, bending to kiss Nesta’s cheek before she rubbed it away with her thumb. Nesta wished she wouldn’t. Wished she could let the mark of love sink deep into her skin.

“A little sore,” Nesta conceded as Mas handed her a steaming mug of Frawley’s tea. Then she admitted, “I’m desperate for a bath.”

Whilst Nesta had woken with no blood on her, she still felt the grime coating her skin like a thick oil. She longed to scrub off the residue of blood and screams, the images of limbs and dead bodies. Durkhanai’s green unseeing eyes floated across Nesta’s vision, and she closed her eyes tightly in a bid to shut out the image.

Sweet, kind Durkhanai. A female, who like so many others, had deserve more than her harsh, miserable life. A female who had decided to fight but had been cut down before she’d been properly able to wield a blade. 

Nesta swallowed and Mas cupped Nesta’s face in her hands. “We will remember them all,” Mas said quietly. “Today we will burn their bodies on the pyre and let their souls go. Then they will be free.”

When Nesta opened her eyes, Mas was staring at Nesta with a determination Nesta had not seen on her before. 

Mas sat down on the mattress and took Nesta’s hands. She stared at them for a long moment. 

“I think I am done, Lady Nesta.”

Nesta froze, scared somehow, at the words. Her heart thumped. “What do you mean?”

Mas’s hands squeezed Nesta’s fingers, and then she looked directly at Nesta. “What I mean, is that I am done,” Mas repeated quietly, but there was a fervent way in which she spoke. Her dark hazel irises burnt with a deliberate intent that Nesta had felt raging in her own on many occasions. A steely resolution. “I am done being ruled by males. I am done being inferior. I have been given a new life and I do not intend to waste it.”

Mas smiled tightly at her and then kissed Nesta’s cheek again. It was a loving gesture and Nesta’s heart swelled. This time she did not rub it away. “General Cassian said someone might have been behind the attacks. That us widows might have been targeted somehow.” The housekeeper huffed angrily. “As if we deserve more suffering than we have already endured, most at the hands of males. Well, I will not stand for it any longer, and neither will the fellow females in my camp.” Mas let go of Nesta’s hands and straightened up, as if that was the end of the conversation — black and white. Obvious. “I will run you a bath.” 

She handed Nesta a spoon loaded with liquid. “Take this for the pain and drink the tea for your magic whilst I get it ready,” she told Nesta, “General Cassian told me to let you know that your sister will be arriving soon. There is a consul for the lords. He asked if you’d like to attend.”

Swallowing her medicine, Nesta gingerly eased herself out of bed and wrapped her fingers around her mug. She had been in too much pain the day before to be eased into different clothing and her leathers creaked and cracked as she moved. Nesta winced at the dull throb that twisted through her side. It was nothing like the pain that knocked the breath from her lungs yesterday, but it was enough to be uncomfortable.

Mas shot Nesta an admonishing look as Nesta stiffly followed the housekeeper to the bathroom, but she did not reach out to help her. Nesta appreciated it; she was fed up of being mollycoddled. Only Roksana came to Nesta’s side, her arms wrapping around Nesta’s right leg. 

“Hi sinta,” Nesta said, running a palm over Roksana’s messy hair. _Hi darling._ Mas’s favourite phrase, but one Nesta had adopted for herself when she spoke to Roksana. “Once I’ve had a bath, shall I do your hair?”

Roksana nodded, slipping her hand into Nesta’s. 

“How are you?” Nesta asked the housekeeper once she was fully submerged into the deliciously hot water. Mas had slipped in the same oils Cassian had used when he’d drawn her a bath all that time ago, and already Nesta could feel all of her muscles relax. Roksana was sitting on the carpet, drawing patterns into the thick plush of the bath mat with a stubby finger, her little wings trailing on the floor.

“I am fine,” Mas replied, lathering up Nesta’s hair. Normally Nesta would have refused to let anyone bathe her, but it hurt to lift her arms. For the first time that morning, it made Nesta glad that Cassian had not been there when she woke. Had not had to bathe her himself. The thought of Cassian having to bathe her — his hands in her hair — sent a shiver through her, goosebumps littering her skin.

“You’re cold?” Mas asked, raising an eyebrow as goosebumps littered Nesta’s skin.

“No,” Nesta replied, sinking a little lower into the steaming heat of the bath. “I don’t know if I would be fine if I had experienced what you had.”

_I wasn’t fine,_ Nesta thought _. I wasn’t fine for a very long time. It’s ok for you not to be fine, too._ But she didn’t say that. Couldn’t, even now. 

Mas eyed Nesta for a moment, before she continued to rub shampoo into the ends of Nesta’s hair.

“When the life bled out of me, it was not the pain or the injustice that plagued me, but the regret that I had not fought,” Mas admitted quietly. “And when you gifted me with a new chance, I realised that I had a choice; I could let my experiences consume me, or I could use them to fuel something else.”

“So I am not fine,” Mas continued, “but I will let that feeling motivate me into doing something good. I will try to do my bit.”

Nesta craned her neck to look up at the housekeeper. She had dipped a jug into the water ready to wash the suds from Nesta’s hair.

“What are you going to do?” Nesta asked, after Mas had gently poured the water over her head. Suds ran down the length of Nesta’s hair and Mas submerged the jug into the water again.

“You’ll see,” Mas said, her expression tight but promising as she carefully poured more water over Nesta’s head.

And that was that — conversation over. Nesta did not press the housekeeper. Mas had not pushed her when Nesta had first come to Illyria, when she had been a tangle of hollowed out grief and anger. Mas had not raised an eyebrow as Nesta was tapered off the alcohol, her clothes stained with vomit and her body relentlessly shaking. Mas had not forced her to eat when her cheeks were sunken and her figure skeletal. She was like Cassian in that way. Choice after choice after choice. An endless presence. Silent support. 

So, Nesta would do the same. Because that’s what you did for those you loved.

* * *

Nesta was braiding Roksana’s hair when Feyre arrived. To her surprise, her sister did not winnow directly into the living room but to the front door. When she knocked, Roksana jumped. Nesta dropped her hands to the youngling’s shoulders in reassurance.

When Mas opened the door, Feyre smiled tentatively. “I don’t think we were properly introduced,” her sister said to the housekeeper as she stepped inside in a waft of pear and lilac. “I’m Feyre.”

Blushing, Mas kept her eyes downcast as she bobbed into a curtsey. “I know who you are, High Lady.”

“Feyre,” her sister insisted. “Please. How are you today?”

“I’m well,” Mas said, a blush staining her tan cheeks. 

Nesta bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop in place of rolling her eyes. She was sitting in her usual spot at the corner of the U-shaped couch with Roksana sitting on the floor between her legs. When Feyre approached them, Roksana began to scrabble, her small wings flaring as if she were ready to take flight. 

Nesta managed to run a hand over the little girl’s head without losing hold of the end of the plait she had been finishing. “You’re ok, Roksana,” Nesta assured the youngling. “This is Feyre, my sister.”

Roksana’s wary eyes followed Feyre as she walked to the hearth and held her hands out to the flames, but she settled back into her previous position so Nesta could finish weave the last few twists to her hair.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asked tentatively, her softened expression moving from Roksana to Nesta’s midriff, before finally settling on her face. No doubt taking in the colour in her sister’s cheeks that was absent the day before. 

“Sore,” Nesta said, because it was the truth. Then she turned her attention back to Roksana. “Now,” she said to the youngling, “what colour ribbon are we going to choose today?”

Roksana pointed silently to a ribbon the colour of pine. 

“And what letter does the word ‘green’ start with?” Nesta urged.

Roksana twisted to look up at Nesta. For a moment, she thought Roksana would refuse to speak, but then she mumbled, “Guh.”

“Very good,” Nesta praised with a nod. “Perhaps we can ask Feyre to pass the ribbon.”

Eyes sparkling, Feyre picked up a red ribbon from the collection littering the pine coffee table and asked Roksana, “This one?”

Roksana shook her head.

“Silly Feyre,” Nesta chided. She tickled her finger across Roksana’s chubby cheek as if she were erasing the little girl’s somber expression. To Nesta’s relief, the beginning of a smile promised to bloom across the youngling’s face at the touch. Nesta was thankful to Feyre for playing. Roksana’s eyes weren’t as haunted as they had been yesterday and Nesta was determined to keep it that way. “She doesn’t know the difference between green and red, does she, Roksana?”

No giggle but that small, secret smile widened slightly as Feyre passed Nesta the right ribbon. 

“You look lovely,” Nesta told Roksana, her heart twisting as the little girl glowed. “Why don’t you go and show Mas your new hair?”

Feyre smiled as Roksana scampered off, her wings bobbing behind her. Then she turned back to Nesta and produced a letter from the folds of her cloak. 

“From Elain,” Feyre said, handing the envelope to Nesta. “She sends her well wishes. She wanted to see you today, but there’s a consul meeting with the lords. Will you attend with me?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” Nesta replied, easing her body off the couch in a movement that she knew to be stiff. 

Feyre eyed her as Nesta eased her headband over her head with a wince. She had opted for leathers again today, and although it had been a trial for both Mas and Nesta to get her into her them, Nesta was thankful for it. She was wearing her favourite pair, the material stretched from hours of fighting so that it moulded her body like a second skin. She fastened a midnight blue cloak around her body, the edging lined with soft, dappled fur, and tried not to notice how similar she looked to her sister. 

Feyre was also wearing leathers, the close-fitting material complimenting her long limbs and the elegant shape of her body. Around her neck, she had fastened the black leather clasps of a thick silver cloak lined with white fur. 

Her hair was the only difference to Nesta. Whereas Mas had braided Nesta’s hair into a bun held in place by a woven plait that ran from the right of her hairline, Feyre’s golden strands were weaved into a tight braid that ran from her crown to the very ends. 

Even so, there was no mistaking that they were sister’s.

Thankful that she hadn’t tried to thread her arms through her coat, Nesta reached stiffly for the door handle.

“I can winnow us, if you like,” Feyre said carefully, before Nesta had the chance to bear the house to the elements. No doubt her sister had clocked her grimace.

The old Nesta — the girl angry beyond measure — would have turned her sister down, merely because conceding that someone had dissected how she was feeling made her feel too vulnerable. But Nesta needed to change. Wanted to… to a point.

So, she nodded shortly. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”

Then Nesta turned to Mas, who had emerged by the alcove to see them off. Roksana peeked from behind Mas’s legs, a ring of chocolate around her mouth. 

“I’ll come and meet you at the camp later,” Nesta told the housekeeper. “Shall I bring anything? Blankets and warm clothes?”

But Mas only shook her head. “We have plenty. Emerie — the shopkeeper — bought armfuls of blankets and clothes for the widows last night. Durkhanai used-“

“I know,” Nesta interrupted, not able to hear about Durkhanai when the wound was so fresh. 

Mas did not scold Nesta for the interruption. She only smiled sadly and waved the two of them off, before disappearing back into the kitchen with Roksana at her heels.

“Roksana is an orphan?” Feyre asked Nesta, glancing sideways at her sister after they had winnowed into the midst of the camp. 

Ahead of them, beyond the pointed tents, Nesta could see the outlines of the sparring plateaus. Shadowy, winged figures moved within them, the clang of steel and grunts carrying on the wind. 

Letting go of her sister’s hand, Nesta settled her headband over her ears so it was snug. Despite her determination to dull any unwanted noise, she had a feeling that today was going to try her ability to succumb to battle fatigue.

“Yes,” Nesta replied shortly. But then there was a beat of a pause in which Nesta realised that Feyre was right; communication was an issue for them. So, she elaborated, “Mas fostered Roksana when she was first brought to the widows camp. When Cassian found out, he employed Roksana alongside Mas to keep her out of harsher work.”

Nesta had seen the little girls who were set to work in the kitchens, or worse, the laundry rooms. The latter was the harshest of the camp jobs, and the younglings were often required to stamp and wring cloth for long durations of time until their feet and fingers blistered from the friction. It was always easy to tell apart the orphans from the other girls. Their faces were more gaunt, their clothing ragged, their eyes hollow. They looked exhausted and Nesta had always left feeling so outraged she wanted to set the laundry houses alight.

Feyre looked at Nesta sharply. “But Roksana can’t be more than five.”

Nesta’s lips tightened until they turned white. “No,” was all she said.

Surprise wound through Nesta as Feyre took her hand. “Will you show me the camp when you are better?” Feyre asked. “I would like to get a better sense of how things are run here. Children should not be working—”

“There are many injustices here, not just to the younglings,” Nesta clipped, because she could not stand by and allow her sister to think that was the only twisted cultural tradition in the camps. 

But then, slowly, she nodded in agreement. If Feyre could make change happen in the camps, then Nesta wasn’t going to let their difficult past get in the way of that. “I will show you,” she conceded. “Mas can help, too. She is like a mother figure to many of the females.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was not uncomfortable. They continued to walk through the snow towards the large tent Nesta knew was reserved for war counsel. It was huge, the canvas at least three times the size of the other tents.

“Do you think the rebellion has weight?” Feyre asked her sister. “Do you think the Illyrian’s have a reason to want a different leader?”

It was a plea for honesty and it was not in Nesta’s nature to lie. So, she said, “I think the Illyrians are a proud race who are ingrained in tradition, but they desperately need help in how they restructure the injustices in their communities. They need to do it without losing the elements of their culture which make them who they are.”

Then Nesta changed the subject, because she could not sense him. Had not sensed him since she’d woken that morning, and it was starting to unnerve her, even though logically, she knew he must be in the tent with the other lords. “Where is Cassian?”

Usually, Nesta would not ask outright, but the more things shifted between them the less she cared. There was a part of her that needed to see him. Did he not feel the same? She supposed she had driven him away one time to many. Was that not what he had said yesterday? 

_If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me._

Sometimes, Nesta thought the both of them were traversing down a path that was tangled in miscommunication and mistranslated actions. 

It was true that Nesta had told Cassian to leave her alone after the war, but had he not chosen someone else well before that? And despite his dying promise to her, Cassian had left the battlefield with Mor rather than her. That had spoken volumes for Nesta. It was not how the love story was supposed to play out in her head. It told her they were nothing but a tie strung between them, rather than being motivated by true feeling.

Even now, the thought made Nesta angry… Yet, the way Cassian looked at her sometimes, his eyes tender and his touch reverent… It was almost enough to convince her that there was something deeper. 

They may be magnets but if that attraction was severed, would there by anything left or would they both part ways without a glance over their shoulders?

“Cassian has been with Rhys all morning,” Feyre told Nesta. “Azriel brought news this morning and Rhys disappeared from Velaris in the early hours.”

Nesta did not want to imagine her sister’s mate curled and sleepy around Feyre, dragging himself unwillingly out of bed. Did not want to hear about her sister existing in a home that had been made without her. A home built specifically for every member of their inner circle but her. 

And Nesta had wanted to be left alone initially, but then to see how it played out… to see her erased as her sisters started anew and Nesta was forced to attend…

Well, it turned out that Nesta had not wanted that at all.

“What was Azriel’s news?” Nesta asked.

“I’m not sure,” Feyre admitted. “Rhys left whilst I was asleep.”

“Didn’t he speak to you mind-to-mind?” Nesta asked with a frown. Her sister and her mate were always doing that with one another, especially in the company of others. If Nesta were the sort, it would have made her increasingly paranoid. Instead, it just made her irritable.

Feyre nodded. “He only asked me to come to Illyria and see if you would join us in the war-tent at midday. He said there was an update.” She glanced sideways at Nesta. “It’s harder to speak to one another when the distance is great,” she elaborated. “It’s like we’re speaking under water. The sound is muffled, so he made it brief.”

Together they stepped up to the huge war tent. Feyre had fallen silent, as if Nesta had reminded her of her own abilities and she were conversing with her mate. 

Nesta stared at the tent whilst Feyre’s eyes remained glazed. Stared at the black banner that flew from the top of the canvas, bearing a mountain with three silver stars above the monolith - Ramiel. 

“Rhys says we are to go right in,” Feyre said finally. “They haven’t started yet.”

Inside, Nesta heard the rumble of low voices. It was not a comforting sound; rough and weathered, rather than Cassian’s gentle rumble that felt like a caress.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked.

Nesta snorted. “What for?”

“The lords.”

A harsher snort. “I don’t care about them.”

Straightening her posture, Nesta drew up tall and formidable. Even though she knew every male in there would rival her in height, she would not allow herself to be intimidated. And she shouldn't be, not with the double-edged serpent which writhed inside her veins — her welcome friend. 

Nesta allowed that power to seep from her fingers, testing it out, winding the mist until it was a string of fire around her wrists; a coiled, formidable whip. 

Feyre’s lips twitched as if she were pleased to see her sister’s magic. She held up her own tattooed hand, showcasing the fire that she darted between her outstretched fingers. 

Her smile was feline. “Let’s go.”

* * *

  
The tent was surprisingly warm once Nesta had pushed through the heavy flaps. Roaring open steel fire pits crackled fiercely, lighting the canvas and the simple yet comfortable interior ochre. 

In the centre of the tent was a large pine table with studded detail, and rather than strewn with maps, it was surrounded by low-backed chairs. In them were the local lords.

Nesta recognised some of the lords cruel faces as she strode inside, her long legs carrying her despite the bark of pain that bit at her side. A quick glance around the table told her that there were no spare chairs, but she kept walking anyway, as if she were nothing but certain in a tent full of testosterone and muscle. 

“Good,” a smooth voice drawled — Rhys. “We’re all here.”

He was sat at the head of the table closest to the back of the tent, bedecked in his usual black rather than leathers. A modest crown was inlaid into his unruffled blue-black hair with such subtlety it seemed as if it were a part of him. It was twin to Feyre’s, the stone the colour of the midnight sky and the same as the jewel set into the ring on her sister’s finger — her mating ring. 

It was a purposeful move to wear their crowns. Neither of them had done that the last time they had visited Illyria together. The day that Nesta had first met Devlon. When he had called her a witch. The thought amused her now. Her power jumped too, as if it was also entertained by the memory. 

The mist wreathing around Nesta’s wrists thickened, gleaming silver.

When Nesta found Cassian, she stopped searching. He was decked out in full scaled leathers and his hair hung wild around him. 

With the flickering flames bathing him in a warm glow, he looked indisputably rugged and fierce, but his eyes were on her wrists. Letting her walls fall away Nesta speared for him, just as Azriel had taught her. The method was easy, as if her magic was already seeking him out.

When Cassian’s hazel eyes darted to look at her face, a barely detectable light danced in them. And when her stomach filled with mirth and pride, she knew he was privy to her invisible move.

“What are they doing here?” 

All amusement in Cassian’s eyes winked out, his irises turning dark as he snapped his head to the lord who had sneered. 

The lord — like all of the most powerful Illyrian warriors — was tall, his entire body corded with unyielding, fierce muscle. Black ink peeked out of the armour at his neck and his hair was close-cropped to his scalp, which was flecked with white scars. His eyes were depthless and such a dark brown in some lights they appeared obsidian, his irises practically blending with his pupils. 

They were fixated on Nesta.

Nesta allowed the lord to glare at her. She stared right back, her expression blank but her eyes _burned_.

He looked unmistakably like his son, Ragar. 

“Your High Lady and her sister will be joining today’s counsel, given their involvement in yesterday’s events,” Rhys said calmly, but nobody could mistake the sudden chill of starlight eternal which filled the tent.

A growl of disagreement from the lord. Grumbled murmurs from the other males also ran around the tent. 

“A witch has no place on this counsel,” the lord replied bitingly.

Nesta did not let herself rise to the comment. She did not let her power leap to assert authority. Did not need to, even as Cassian’s snarl whipped around them with such ferocity that the fires sputtered.

And then, to everyone’s surprise — before Rhys or Cassian could even open their mouths — Devlon said coldly, “I believe the witch has earned her place on this counsel more than you have, Albar. She is the reason we don’t have more deaths and casualties.”

When Devlon got to his feet, his scaled armour clinked at the movement. Broad wings flared to balance him as he pulled out his chair. And rather than offer it to his High Lady, he gestured for Nesta to sit with a jerk of his chin.

Silence fell but Nesta only drew up taller. Did not allow herself to wince as she seated herself at the table. She felt Cassian’s concern anyway. Slammed up her ice to block him out. She didn’t need the distraction of his emotions right now, not when she wanted to remain collected. 

Not when she was trying to block out the sounds of the roaring fires from the open pits. 

Rhys waved a hand and two more chairs appeared around the table for Devlon and Feyre. The war lord sat in the chair beside Nesta, just as Cassian settled himself in a chair one place down to allow Feyre to sit next to her mate. 

Another flick of the hand silenced the fires. Some of the lords frowned in confusion. 

Rhys did not rest his violet eyes on Nesta. She was relieved.

“Since when have we allowed a witch to live amongst us,” Albar sneered, clearly not finished. “We are Illyrian’s. We do not accept outsiders, even if this bastard has a preference for one.”

The way in which Cassian leant forward over the table was slow, but every single lord turned to look at him as he braced his hands on the wood. His seven siphons gleamed threateningly and his face… it was brimming with thunderous calm.

Cassian opened his mouth to speak, his hazel eyes flashing, his wings rustling, but Nesta stopped him before words left his mouth. 

She did not need someone to fight her battles. And Cassian did know that, but she also knew that Cassian could not help himself in his need to defend her. She was not angry at him for it. Did not judge. She would do the same. If anyone dared to speak ill of him she would burn them until they were nothing but cinders.

The knowledge was terrifying and soothing at the same time. An irrevocable conflict.

Nesta’s chin rose, determined and unintimidated. “I am not a witch and I belong to no-one but myself.”

Ten pairs of dark eyes snapped back to her, but Nesta acted as if she were entirely unfazed. 

“You’re unnatural,” Albar said, his voice cold.

Nesta expected the words to spear home, but they merely bounced off her leathers as if they were made of nothing but a ball of yarn.

“Then I suggest you don’t get on my bad side,” Nesta clipped, holding up her fingers to showcase the mist that was moving with more intent, like a serpent waiting to strike with venomous, pointed teeth. 

Albar bristled. But then, with a sneer he sat back, his horrible, dark eyes fixated on her hands. Nesta rested them on the table, kept her power burning slowly. A visible reminder that she would not yield.

“Now we are all here,” Rhys said, “we can begin.”

His violet eyes scanned the table as he spoke, even as he remained sat back in his chair, a powerful king relaxed amongst his subjects. He recapped over yesterday’s events, called in Feyre and Nesta to comment when it came to the start of the attack. 

“Devlon,” Rhys said when they had finished recalling the ambush. “Report on the gaps in the patrol.”

A tense silence followed, but the war-lord did not snarl. He only said in his deep, rough voice, “Three of Windhaven’s warriors are missing. Their absence is the reason we were not alerted to the kerits sooner. They were supposed to be patrolling that side of the pass.”

All of the lords sat up straighter.

“Who?” One of them barked. He had a nose that had been so broken, it lay flat and twisted on his face. Nesta had heard Cassian call him Laggar. 

“Druis, Alaksandar and Hakkir,” Devlon replied. “Good soldiers. Excellent flyers. Expected to perform in the Rite this year.”

Another of the lords grunted. Nesta recognised him. He was often at Devlon’s side in the sparring ring. His name was Saker. “All bastards.”

“Should we be surprised,” Albar drawled, “that bastards are the reason we have thirteen dead Illyrian’s lying on the pyres today?” He paused as his eyes tracked their way across the table to Devlon. “You have always been soft on the bastards in this camp, Devlon. Look where places of responsibility have gotten us when bastards should not have been elevated above the ranking of foot soldier-“

Nesta could not help but cut a glance at Cassian. His jaw was clenched, but he remained silent. She melted her ice a little, reached for him, felt his anger simmering in her stomach. She contemplated sending an emotion back to him, to let him know that she was not standing for these arrogant males either. That she sympathised, but Cassian was already leaning forward.

The gesture made Albar pause.

“Perhaps you should not be surprised,” Cassian replied quietly, “that bastards may have finally become fed up with those who have cast them out and left this camp all together.”

Cassian’s voice was deathly calm. He did not move from where he was sitting, but the flickering flames of the pit fires emphasised his dark eyebrows and his angular jaw. 

It made him appear as sharp and dangerous as freshly forged steel. 

And to Nesta’s surprise, not one of the lords opened their mouths. They only cast their eyes downwards, to the siphons gleaming with promise on Cassian’s scaled armour. 

“For all we know, the males could be dead,” Devlon answered, his chair creaking as he sat back in his chair. “Lord Slat and I already have males scouting the areas for signs of the males.”

“They are warriors with no honour,” Laggar sneered. “We—“

But Rhys cut Laggar off. “It has not yet been determined why the warriors weren't in the skies. We will not cast judgement until they are found. I believe that is what we call a fair trial, Laggar,” Rhysand said smoothly. 

A snort from a number of the camp lords. Only Devlon and Slat did not grunt with derision.

In fact, the latter male tilted his head at Rhys, his round, beady eyes boring into his High Lord as if he were trying to read him. The male was shorter than the others, his hair cropped close to his head, his body leaner but still packed with muscle. His figure was not unlike Lorrian’s — built for the skies — and on the inside of his right wrist, he wore a tattoo; a glowing siphon encased by huge, mighty wings. A symbol that marked him as part of the aerial unit. On the backs of his hands, his  four siphons gleamed emerald.

More powerful than the other lords, who wore a maximum of three siphons on the backs of their hands. As powerful as Devlon.

When Slat spoke, his voice was thick, “If you are searching for the males, you are searching for bodies. If they are strong flyers, they will be long gone by now. The skies will have left no trace of them.”

“Even Illyrian’s can’t fly forever,” Feyre said. “They have to rest at some point. It’s been snowing. It will be hard for three warriors to hide their tracks.”

“Not if it’s been snowing,” Albar countered, his voice thick with derision. As if Feyre was stupid.

Nesta bit back a snarl, but she allowed her fingers to spark silver and her whip to glow. A warning. Nobody spoke to her sister like that, unless it was Nesta herself. 

But Feyre did not back down. “ _Especially_ if it has been snowing. They will have left tracks that can be spotted easily enough from the skies. It hasn’t snowed since yesterday afternoon.”

“What I think we really need to discuss is why warriors would go missing just before a kerit attack,” Slat announced. 

“As General Cassian has already insinuated, we are considering it a possibility that the attacks might have been manufactured,” Rhys admitted, arranging his hands so his fingers were steepled in front of his body, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He, too, was seated in a low-backed chair, having chosen to wear wings today rather than arrive without. It was a deliberate move. It showed the Illyrians what their High Lord had in common with his subjects rather than how he was different. 

Nesta would give her sister’s mate that. He was not stupid. For the most part, he thought things through.

A low murmur ran through the lords.

“Kerits have never attacked our camps before,” Cassian elaborated, when Rhys did not say anything further. Nesta wondered if it was because he was giving Cassian the ability to assert authority. “It is strange that it has happened across three separate camps in a matter of weeks.”

“I’ll be damned if Lord Beron isn’t behind it,” Albar spat, his fist coming down on the pine table so hard the table shook. “Forktail has never had any qualms about organising raids on Windhaven in the past—”

“If Forktail has had no qualms about acting on past feuds,” Nesta said coldly, unsurprised by the lack of intelligence of the males, “then they would not have beasts attack the camps. They would do it themselves.”

A flicker of pride wound through her, despite her walls, but Nesta did not glance Cassian’s way.

“Lady Nesta is right,” Rhys said, before any of the lords could open their mouths to speak. “We cannot assume that this is an attack from another camp. We are considering external forces might be at work. With that in mind, Devlon will be organising fiercer patrols around the camp and it is time for us to erect tougher boundaries around the perimeter.”

Rhys continued, “Myself, my mate and others will be putting protective shields in place for each of the camps. We will not lose any more unnecessary lives when there’s a simple solution to stopping the kerits from attacking again. Your General will work with those on patrols. My spymaster will be present in the camp over the next few weeks questioning warriors.” 

“We do not need your fancy shields,” Devlon snapped. “We are Illyrians. We are born to protect. We do not need your magic-“

“Females died because your protection failed,” Nesta interjected with a snarl, her head snapping to look Devlon straight in the eye. Her voice was brimming — shaking — with fervour. 

She felt her emotional shields falter, her anger too sharp and ruthless to be stifled. Nesta thought of Durkhanai’s lifeless eyes and the cook’s broken body. Of Mas’s trailing guts as she lay in a pool of blood, Roksana’s hands _inside_ of the housekeeper as she tried to stop the bleeding. “They did not know how to defend themselves yet they did not hesitate to protect your young.” Mist was running rings around her limbs, her whip glowed bright but did not burn — not unless she willed it. 

Nesta leant forward. So her face was so close to the war-lord’s that her breath touched his cheek. Devlon did not flinch. Did not move. His dark eyes stared right back at her, as she said, “You will allow your High Lord to erect protective shields around this camp.”

Slowly, dangerously, Nesta sat back in her chair, never breaking eye contact with the war-lord.

And then, to Nesta’s surprise, Devlon gave a sharp nod as he pushed back his chair. The legs scraped on the low wooden platform despite the rugs atop it. “Put the shields in place,” he told Rhys coldly. “We’re done here.” 

And then he left the tent, the other lords trailing behind him. 

* * *

Cassian found Nesta the moment she left the tent. Rhys and Feyre had disappeared to put the protective barriers in place, winnowing from inside the tent as the lords started to leave.

Nesta had not wanted to remain in the war-tent. Sitting straight for so long had the dull pain in her stomach elevating to an insistent throb, so she had risen stiffly with the other lords and left in search of fresh air.

“How are you feeling?” 

Cassian’s voice was a low, welcome rumble in her ear — the only male voice that day that hadn’t made her power itch to escape. Nesta turned into that warmth that always seemed to radiate from him, to find him looking down at her with eyes that swam gold. 

“Fine,” she replied. “Sore,” she added, when his expression didn’t change but his wings rustled.

For a moment, Nesta remembered the sleepy memory of a curled wing and even breathing close to her. Had he slept beside her? She wasn’t sure if it had been a dream or real. It had felt real, but she had taken a lot of sedatives and her subconscious had conjured images from both dreams and nightmares.

Cassian’s dark features tightened into a slight frown. For a moment, she thought he was going to suggest she go home and rest, but he only nodded shortly. 

“You didn’t tell them about the carrion,” Nesta said. 

Cassian threw an invisible bubble around them as they walked. “No,” he replied. “Any information like that could strengthen feuds between the camps. Illyrian’s are hot-headed at the best of times, we don't want to add kindle to the fire before we know who is responsible for leading the kerits to the camps.”

Nesta nodded to indicate she had heard him.

“If the missing warriors have sought allegiance elsewhere, I can’t say I blame them,” Cassian admitted quietly. He was staring away from her, his features twisted. “If I had not had Rhys and an allegiance with his court, I might have been bought when I was younger. I was outcast from such a young age… Those males cannot be blamed for hoping they might belong elsewhere.”

Nesta’s insides squeezed at the concession. She curled her fingers around Cassian’s arm of scaled armour, forcing him to stop and look at her. “Nobody should be outcast,” she told him. “It is not wrong for you to admit what might have been, or to understand another’s point of view. That is not a weakness, it is a strength.”

Cassian looked down to where she clutched at him before he met her gaze. Nesta did not back away, made her expression as earnest as possible. 

“They are burning the pyres in a moment,” Cassian told Nesta, casting his gaze to the front-left side of the mountain pass. “Would you like to come?

Nesta swallowed. She thought of the cook… of sweet, beautiful Durkhanai who had not deserved the fate the damned Cauldron had dealt her. “Yes,” she said.

Cassian gestured with his arm to indicate that they should continue to walk to the main path that cut through the camp. “Devlon’s changed his attitude towards you.”

Nesta snorted softly, but then she admitted, “I don’t know why.”

“I do,” Cassian replied, but he didn’t expand further. 

Nesta took a moment to study his face. Shadows ringed beneath his eyes, his tan skin a shade paler than usual. “Did you sleep?”

If he were surprised by the question, Cassian did not let it show. Nor did he indicate that she had thrown him with the sudden change of subject. “For a bit,” he replied. 

“You needn’t have tended to me, I would have been fine,” Nesta told him, knowing somehow that his exhaustion was partly her fault. 

But Cassian shook his head. “You had me worried,” he admitted eventually. “The sedative gave you nightmares but you were in such a deep sleep I couldn’t reach you.”

Nesta fought the red that wanted to flush across her face. She hoped that she had not been speaking in her sleep. Did not like anyone seeing her that vulnerable, not even Cassian.

“You settled after a while,” Cassian added, after another pause that had stretched out for a beat too long.  
  
And then to her dismay, a stain appeared on both of _his_ cheeks. 

She watched him drag his gaze away from her to stare resolutely at the ground beneath his feet.

_Oh._ Not a dream then. Cassian had slept beside her. Had arced his wing over her. 

Nesta remembered how safe she had felt when she’d woken to a dome of umber. How the gentle, even breathing had lulled her straight back under. How she had fallen into dreams rather than nightmares.

“Thank you,” Nesta said quietly, the words barely audible, but Cassian dipped his chin to indicate that he had heard her. 

Then she stopped, a sudden realisation hitting her. “Do I need to change? I - What do I wear to a funeral in Illyria?”

But Cassian’s eyes only softened as they took in what she was wearing. “You’re fine,” he replied, his head tilting slightly to consider her. “Warriors wear armour to funerals.”

* * *

The widows would be given a warriors funeral, Cassian had informed Nesta as he walked her to the front-left of the mountain pass. He led her on a route that she had not taken before, but which Cassian seemed to know with his eyes closed, his feet anticipating rock and uneven ground before it rose up to meet their feet. 

Usually the burning of widows did not draw an audience or demand a ceremony; they were seen as a stain on society, a blemish of which Illyrians were glad to rid themselves. Yet… the act of the widows. The way in which they had sacrificed their lives for the younglings… Devlon had not protested when Rhys had ordered they were given an honourable send off. He had only grunted to show he agreed before he stalked off to make the necessary arrangements.

Sentiments were changing in the Windhaven camp, Cassian told Nesta with detectable hope. It was a positive sign, even if the events leading up to it had been unimaginable.

After a long while of walking along the rocky wall of the mountain pass, a clearing petered out to their left. It was full of too-small ramshackle tents and fae-made fire-pits fashioned by scooped out earth and a circle of craggy stones around the perimeter which no doubt acted as makeshift shields from the battering winds that Illyria was known for. 

Somehow Nesta knew what it was without Cassian saying a word, even though the camp was deserted.

“Is this where you lived?” Nesta asked.

Cassian did not stop. “Yes.” 

He shrugged, even though Nesta could tell by the tightness of his shoulders that the memory was painful for him. Because of the trauma or the reminder of what he thought to be his own unworthiness, Nesta wasn’t sure.

“This is where Rhys found me and dragged me from my tent,” Cassian expanded, pointing to a spot by a cluster of bare-looking pine trees. “The mud is frozen at the moment because of the snow, but when it rained, the forest floor would become waterlogged. The pine trees provided us bastards with the best shelter against the elements.” Nesta surveyed the thin, red trunk and the pine needles above that couldn’t do much to protect the run-down looking tents below it. 

“Anyway,” Cassian continued with a shake of his head, as if he were ridding himself of an unwanted memory. “Rhys took me to the house he and his mother were living in. She was livid, but she told me to get in the tub to bathe or I could go back out in the cold. She never let me leave, after that. Rhys’s mother was full of soft-fire, but she had grown up low-born and knew what it was to suffer, so she gave me clean clothes and a bed to sleep in. I never left, after that.”

Cassian’s darkened expression had caved to make way for something smoother. Yet, it was laced with a sadness.

“She sounds lovely,” Nesta said, not knowing quite what to say. For once, she did not avert her gaze from him. Instead, their eyes locked and something started to turn inside of her. Not her power. But as if a different key were turning in another lock, opening rather than closing.

“She was,” Cassian corrected, and then he looked away, the key jamming in place. “The bastards tents are near the pyres. Whenever there was a funeral, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, I’d crawl out of my tent to find the ground covered in ash.”

Horror twisted through Nesta. At the thought of little boys with nobody to love them having to crawl through the ash of flesh and bone. “That’s horrible.”

But Cassian only shrugged and gave her that crooked smile of his, the one he wore when he spoke about the injustices inflicted upon his race by his race. “Yes,” he agreed. He tilted his head in the direction of the trees that ran along the mountain wall. “It’s not much farther.”

Nesta allowed him to lead her across the forest floor through the snow and pine needles. Eventually, the trees cleared and a wide ledge jutted out from the mountain pass, suspending them in midair. 

Crowds and crowds of Illyrians had already gathered. No, Nesta corrected, crowds and crowds of _females_. And it was not just widows and female orphans. Nesta recognised the the faces of females who worked in the laundrette, in the kitchens, as seamstress’s… 

Nesta spied Emerie too, standing a little away from the crowds by the mountain wall. Her unusually blank expression was twisted with grief, her tan cheeks stained with dried tears, her eyes red. Durkhanai had worked in her shop… Emerie probably knew the orphan better than anyone else. 

At the bottom of the huge pyre, Nesta spotted Rhys and Feyre. Devlon was nearby speaking to Slat. The other lords were nowhere to be seen. Nesta was not surprised, but she couldn’t help the fury that heated her blood at the knowledge that they did not deem the widows worthy of a send off. It clouded her mind, until the fear she had not yet admitted to herself was pushed far, far back: that the sound of the fire would trigger her trauma.

Cassian seemed to know what she was thinking, because his eyes flicked briefly to her headband, as if he were tempted to make sure it was properly secured over her ears. But eventually, he merely jutted his chin towards the bottom of the pyre and led them through the crowds to where Rhys and Feyre stood. 

Not long after they had arrived, Nesta spied Mas weaving her way through the Fae with little Roksana in tow. The youngling was clinging to the housekeeper’s hand with an apprehensive look on her face, as if she had witnessed a funeral before and it brought back dark memories. She was hanging back slightly from Mas, her footsteps heavy, her little wings drooping…

Mas did not smile as she approached, but she did not look down. Did not become subservient. Her back was straight, her short, choppy hair ruffled by the breeze. Her eyes were determined in a way that Nesta had never witnessed before

“Masak,” Cassian greeted, his voice low in Nesta’s ear before he bent down to kiss the housekeeper on both cheeks. 

Nesta did not fail to hear the murmur that went around the crowd, as the General of the Night Court’s armies greeted a low-born widow not with civility, but clear affection.

“High Lord,” Masak said to Rhys after Cassian pulled back, dipping into a low curtsey. Nesta suspected the two had met many times before. That it was that familiarity that allowed Mas to bury the gender role dictated by her culture. “Thank you for sending off the females this way.”

Rhysand dipped his chin, and to Nesta’s surprise, a dark shadow passed over his features. “Of course, it’s the least we can do. I am sorry we could not prevent their deaths.”

Mas nodded shortly. Nesta watched her wings rustle, as if she were nervous, and then she said, “I would like to speak to the crowds. To the females, before you light the pyre.”

Beside Nesta, Cassian stilled. His chest was almost pressed against her right arm, and he was closer — much closer — than he usually was. Nesta assumed it was him being over-protective. She knew she had terrified him when she had collapsed yesterday. Had felt his unleashed panic, the sensation so fierce that it had practically consumed her. Had been so overcome with it that he had not even bothered to contain it within his shields.

Even so, Nesta knew he had dialled back the territorial side of him that had wanted to snarl at everyone and everything. Knew that he had made the conscious effort to reign it back because he thought she would not like it. 

Yet… to know someone felt that strongly about her that they were on edge enough to fight off any threat that might compromise her safety… It was an unusual feeling, to have someone care about Nesta that way.

She didn’t find that she hated it. Perhaps because she knew she would have done the same thing for Cassian. Would not have hesitated to burn the entire camp if it meant he would be safe and well. 

If they ever had to go, they would go together rather than apart. It was an unconscious choice, but a choice all the same.

Rhysand’s expression flickered with surprise for a fraction of a second, but then he bowed his head and held out a hand to the crowd. “It would be my honour.” 

With a flick of his hand, magic shot from his palms and a bubble slid into place with a gentle glow of violet. 

The crowd quieted.

Mas turned to Nesta, passed her Roksana’s sticky hand. Gently, Mas cupped her palms to Nesta’s cheeks, stared deeply into her eyes, as if she were able to see directly into Nesta’s soul and loved every part of it, fire and steel and all. She kissed each of Nesta’s cheeks in turn, just as she had done to Cassian, before she turned and stepped out in front of the expectant crowd.

A surprised murmur ran through the sea of bodies, but the females stood up taller, eager to listen…

“My fellow widows,” Mas started, and a quiet hush immediately fell over the crowds. Rhys had clearly done something with his magic to ensure Mas’s voice rang loud and clear, so even those at the back could hear her. “And my fellow females,” Mas corrected as her eyes ran over faces upon faces, not just from the widows camp but from Windhaven in general. “Today we remember the females who gave their lives for our safety. For the females who offered themselves for the pyre so we could walk free.”

Pausing, Mas took a deep breath. For the briefest of seconds, her dark eyes settled onto Nesta, but then she continued to speak. “Yesterday I was blessed with a new life, and with it, a fresh perspective — a chance to start again. Yesterday, the widows camp was attacked by kerits. Us widows, and the female orphans who live with us, were targeted first because we were banished up a mountain for no other crime than that our husbands or parents had passed. Our isolated camp was subject to the harshest of weather conditions and the most treacherous of paths, not to mention the least safe location in the camp should we be open to attack. Without our High Lady and Lady Nesta arriving early on the scene to fight off the beasts, many of us would not have made it to safety and our death toll would be far greater. It is thanks to them,” Mas said fiercely, looking to Nesta and Feyre in turn, “that so many of us are alive and breathing.”

Mas stopped speaking to survey the crowds, her hazel eyes falling on face after face after face. 

No-one spoke. 

When Nesta glanced at the sea of fae, she saw that each and every female was fixated on Masak, their expressions stricken with grief and… something else. 

“I have been a mother to many of you,” Mas continued, holding out her hands to encompass those that had gathered. “I have taken you under my wing and put clothes on your back. I have never wanted anything in return. But today I do. I ask you to wake before dawn tomorrow and meet me in the sparring ring with a General who cares if we live or die and a High Fae who slew beast after beast to protect us. Two Fae, who like us, know what it is to suffer and who have emerged triumphant despite it.”

Mas was eyeing the crowd with a determination that Nesta had never seen. In the grey light, her eyes danced with a strength Nesta had not witnessed before. 

For once, the housekeeper stood tall, the ancient lines of wisdom on her face powerful and indisputably fierce.

“And,” Mas continued. She had fallen into a rhythm now, her voice enchanting — addictive. “I ask that when you travel to others camps, you tell the females of what happened here yesterday. Of how we have suffered but emerged strong. Of how together, we will learn how to defend ourselves, to ensure we are not mutilated or beaten down, or cast out. Of how we will honour those who died by no longer allowing ourselves to be disposable or be told that we are not worthy, because we _are_. And the next time males or beasts try to knock us down, we will fight and _we will win_.”

The crowd roared with sudden chatter; the females who had once been silent beyond measure, sparked into conversation, as if life had been breathed into their bodies for the first time. But when Rhysand — their High Lord — walked towards the housekeeper and handed her an unlit torch, they fell silent again with a wave of hush.

For a moment, Mas merely stared at Rhysand. Then she looked down at the torch he had placed into her hand. 

Nesta didn’t know what fuelled her to do it. It was as if her fingers moved independently of her body, the digits flicking with an expertise she did not know she had. Silver flames crackled across the clearing in a contained whip of heat. It struck the torch’s cloth with a precision even Nesta was surprised by — that she knew, if she and Cassian had been in training, he would have praised her for.

The torch roared to life in Mas’s hand. Silver flames licked into the fresh, untamed air of Illyria, but then, somehow, Nesta willed them to be silent and they obeyed. As if her power had rolled over at her will, subservient. As if finally, Nesta had understood that her magic was not separate from her, but part of who she was, and as such, bent to her will.

Mas’s widened eyes connected with Nesta’s, but Nesta only nodded, her chin dipping in encouragement.Her heart was bursting, full to the brim with love and pride for a female who was brave beyond measure, despite the atrocities life had dealt her. 

The sensation melted through the icy cage Nesta held fierce around her emotions as if it were made of nothing but air, hitting her square in the chest, but Nesta did not try to stop it. Instead, she allowed herself to truly feel. Let her barriers fall away so she could be overcome with it. Throwing her magic out over the crowds like a fishermen casting a net out at sea, Nesta allowed it all to hit her. And as the awe, grief and determination of the inspired females in the crowds wound its way into her gut, Nesta realised that her gift was not just a curse. That it could be beautiful.

Biting back a sob, Nesta stood tall, gathering Roksana so the little girl was hugging tight to her legs. Cassian’s hand came to grip Nesta’s upper arm, but when she craned her neck to look up at him, he was not looking at her but at Mas. His grip remained tight as together, they watched their foster mother — the mother to so many vulnerable Illyrians — lower the torch to the pyre.

Nobody spoke as the flames took hold, even as the pyres blazed with silent silver. Instead, they all stood and watched the dancing flames submerge the cloth bound figures.

Cassian did not drop his hand. Did not loosen his grip, as if he were too caught up in the moment to catch himself. 

His dream, for so long, finally coming to fruition. The dream he had held since he had learned of his mother’s fate. Another female who had been discarded and deemed unworthy, even as she had brought life to the world.

Nesta knew all that without him having to speak. Unthinkingly, Nesta brought the hand that was not pressing Roksana close upwards, so that she could slide her icy fingers against his warm ones. 

And she squeezed, just once, before she let them drop. 

* * *

At dawn the next morning Cassian, Nesta, Devlon, Lorrian, and a few of the camps best instructors watched Mas walk to the sparring ring. Behind her was a stream of females both young and old. 

They were not just from the widows camp. Nesta spied Emerie and the female who worked in the apothecary. The females who worked as seamstresses, in the kitchens… No camp-matrons, but Nesta hadn’t expected that. They were too deeply entrenched and favoured to sacrifice the positions they have no doubt battled for in their own way.

“They’re determined,” Lorrian murmured to Cassian. He clapped his friend briefly on the back, as if he too knew what this meant to him. “It’s a good sign.”

Cassian only nodded to indicate he had heard, his features tightening. Nesta knew it was because he felt too much. Because he didn’t know how to arrange his expression. Because he had never dreamt that his vision for the females of Illyria might come true. 

Nesta could feel all his emotions churning around in her stomach. Had let herself feel them. After the funeral, Nesta had not stacked her ice walls back to form an icy cage around her heart. Instead, she had stacked them into a wall heigh enough to block out lower level emotions. Any emotion that surged would still reach her, but Nesta had found the new height allowed her to filter out the lower-level intensities.

“You will demonstrate?” Cassian asked Nesta. 

He turned his head to face her. Concern was etched upon his face and his eyes darted to her stomach, which was clad in her favourite leather’s. 

Nesta’s injury had faded away with another night's sleep, and she had woken that morning feeling refreshed and new, as if she had not suffered major internal bleeding at all.

“If you like,” Nesta agreed, even though she had been going to offer anyway. Was not in a million years intending to watch on the sidelines. 

“Please,” Cassian said.

Nesta blinked. In all the time that she had known him, Cassian rarely said please. When he had, it was usually when he was begging her.

_Please talk to me. Please don't shut me out. Please eat, Nesta._

But this was different. It was not Cassian simply asking her to help him, but telling her what she wanted more than anything. What she had always wanted. 

_You are useful. You are needed._

So she just nodded, unable to find the words to respond verbally. 

The males soon set to work, splitting the females into three groups dependent on age. Then Cassian started to teach. He explained that they would start with self-defence, talked through each move, demonstrating each one with Nesta. When he finished talking through the counter-assaults, he had the groups split up into the three separate training rings to begin their practice. 

Today, the females would focus on learning to strike down their opponents with a forearm to the neck, followed by a hard strike to the stomach with an elbow. When they had mastered that, Cassian had informed Nesta during their walk to the sparring rings, they would move on to harder moves. 

Cassian had taken his time explaining to the females why each move was important. Why every Illyrian who trained in the rings mastered the self-defensive moves first. Whilst Cassian spoke, Nesta had scanned the females faces; many of their expressions were grim, as if they had suffered from attacks before. 

Nesta tried not to wonder how many females had been raped or beaten. It hurt too much, so she concentrated instead on the look of determination on their faces. It blended in with the apprehension, but not one of them walked away.

Afterwards, when the females had finished for the day, Lorrian came over to join Cassian and Nesta where they stood just inside the entrance of the main training ring. The Colonel had been training the eldest females with Slat, a lord who Lorrian appeared to have a terse but amicable relationship with. Nesta supposed that being part of Windhaven’s aerial unit, Slat respected Lorrian’s expertise in the skies. Just the night prior, Cassian had informed Nesta over dinner that Slat had fought in the most recent war against Hybern, but that he had escaped the fate of the Cauldron’s blast because of an injury to his left wing, which had forced him to remain in the war-camp.

“How many females have had their wings cut?” Cassian asked Lorrian as the Colonel stomped through the mud. The weather was still bitterly cold, but the trampling of feet had meant that icy ground had given way to thick mud just at the opening to the ring. Cassian’s expression was grim — expectant of bad news — but there had been a rare light in his eyes that morning which he did not usually allow the Illyrians to see. It was as if someone has swept a hand over his face and lightened the sense of foreboding and worry he harboured when it came to his people.

Lorrian grimaced. “Too many. A lot of the younger females can fly, but I’d imagine they lacked the training as youngling’s, so it will be slow work if we want them in the skies.”

“But not impossible?” Nesta asked, before she could help herself. 

“Not impossible,” Lorrian assured Nesta. His eyes fell to Roksana. The youngling had come over to shyly clutch at Nesta’s legs.

The Colonel’s features softened, but then Devlon was stalking over to where they stood, and Lorrian straightened.

As always, the lord’s face was serious, but there was no trace of a sneer across his face. “They are all green and weak,” he told Cassian coldly, his tone matter-of-fact rather than outrightly cruel. “The trainers have been given orders to turn up five days a week.”

Cassian dipped his chin once to show he was satisfied. “Colonel Lorrian will attend every Wednesday,” Cassian replied. “Alongside Slat, he will get those able up into the skies and organise drills so the females can strengthen their wings.”

Cassian and Devlon continued to converse in short, terse sentences. Nesta wondered how difficult it was for Devlon to allow the females to train, when his upbringing told him otherwise. Nesta knew he had only been begrudgingly teaching the few female students when she first came to Windhaven because of Cassian and Rhys’s insistence. That if Cassian was not there, the lord would have let the sessions slip. But… with such a big turnout it seemed that even Devlon could not deny the females the right of learning how to fight. Had not complained to Cassian, apart from to grumble briefly about pulling extra trainers from the male rings to compensate for the amount of new recruits.

Nesta’s attention was pulled away from Cassian and Devlon as Roksana began to tug urgently at Nesta’s leg. The youngling’s wings were flapping with such agitation that Nesta was worried, but when she bent down she realised that Roksana’s face was alight with excitement. 

Roksana’s hands slipped around Nesta’s neck, pulling her head down by the loose tendrils of hair that had slipped free of the plait that Nesta had braided down her back when she had woken.

Nesta was so astounded by the fact that Roksana wanted to whisper in her ear, that she didn’t make out what the youngling was saying until she had repeated it for the third time. “ _Manticore_.”

Nodding encouragingly, Nesta looked over to where Caerleon was lying in the mud as if it were a throne. His beautiful, sandy head was raised regally, and he was surveying the scenery with a look that was all-seeing.

“That’s right,” Nesta told Roksana, her lips twitching upwards. “M is for Manticore. His name is Caerleon. Would you like to say hello?”

But that seemed to be too much for Roksana and she scampered off, her wings flapping every few strides as she went to join some of the other young orphans just outside the training ring. Mas was conversing with some of the widows a few feet away and Roksana was no doubt waiting for her foster mother to take her back to the camp.

“That little one has small wings.”

Nesta’s head snapped Lorrian who was nodding in the direction of Roksana. His expression was thoughtful.

“Is that bad?” Nesta asked with alarm.

Lorrian shrugged. “She might have a late growth spurt, but it wouldn’t hurt her to start strengthening them as soon as possible. If youngling’s don’t learn to use their wings, it slows down the growth rate.” When Nesta continued to look concerned, he elaborated, “As a lot of older widows have clipped wings, it is not unusual for orphan younglings to grow up without witnessing their guardian’s fly. It means that many of the female younglings have wings that are underdeveloped.”

“I can tell Roksana wants to fly,” Nesta told Lorrian. “She is always scooting over the ground.”

Lorrian jerked his chin at Roksana with a small smile, and Nesta saw the orphan skate over the mud to meet Mas. “I’ve noticed. Will she let me examine her?”

Nesta frowned. Roksana did not like males. Cassian was the only male Roksana did not shy away from. He had even held her the other day, and that morning, Nesta had felt a fist clench over her heart when Roksana had hovered over to Cassian when he had bent down to say hello. 

Nesta knew how it had affected Cassian. Had felt joy flare inside of him as he fell into soft Illyrian which Nesta could not follow. Had seen the way his eyes lit up as Roksana had quietly said _thank you_ as he complimented her hair. 

“We can try,” Nesta told Lorrian. “You’ll have to bend down to her level. She’s wary of males.”

Lorrian just nodded to indicate he understood. “She will need to stretch her wings for me.”

When Nesta called to Roksana, the little girl spent no time coming over to her, but she still clutched at Nesta’s legs and stared up at Lorrian with an apprehension which hurt Nesta to look at.

Smoothing a hand over Roksana’s braided hair, Nesta said, “This is my friend Lorrian, Roksana. He wants to take a look at your wings. Would that be ok?”

Silence fell as Roksana’s hands tightened on Nesta’s leathers. When Lorrian knelt down to eye-level, she darted behind Nesta’s legs, only her face peeking around the tops of Nesta’s knees. 

But Lorrian did not let her movement faze him. He smiled kindly, wiping all traces of Colonel from his face. It made his features less harsh, revealing the male that Nesta had come to know since first day in The Steppes when she and Cassian had been attacked by kerits.

“Hello, _stella_ ,” Lorrian said. “Can you stretch your wings out for me?”

He puffed his chest out with mock importance and pulled his wings wide, straining the tendons. After a little hesitation, Roksana followed suit. 

“What beautiful wings,” Lorrian said conversationally. “I’m just going to touch them quickly. Would that be all right, Roksana?”

“Roksana?” Nesta prompted gently, running her hand over Roksana’s head when the little girl remained mute. The youngling was still clutching at Nesta’s legs, but she dipped her chin just once in agreement, the action so wary Nesta’s heart ached.

“Atta youngling,” Lorrian said with another gentle smile.

Quickly, he examined Roksana’s wings, running his hands brusquely over the tendons and bone. He asked the orphan to open and close her claws, to curve and straighten her wings, for her to hover above the ground.

For the latter, Roksana wobbled as if she were unable to balance herself. 

When Lorrian nodded to indicate that he was finished, Roksana half-scampered, half-skimmed the ground as she went to join Mas.

Nesta and Lorrian watched her go. 

“She’s got excellent control considering her wings are under-developed,” Lorrian told Nesta. “I’ll speak to Cassian about ensuring all of the orphan younglings aren’t being missed out when it comes to flying lessons. I can oversee them myself during my weekly trip.”

“She’s a quiet little thing,” Lorrian added after a moment. “Do you know what happened to her parents?”

“No,” Nesta said. “She’s only just started to say the odd word. The grief rendered her mute.”

Lorrian’s expression tightened. “It’s a good job Frawley isn’t here,” Lorrian said finally, but he didn’t offer anything else, even though the following silence was pregnant. In the end, he added, “If you want to help Roksana strengthen her joints, you could hold her hands whilst she practices flapping her wings a few feet off the ground.”

Nesta nodded. She would do that. Would do anything to make sure Roksana tasted the skies. Nesta knew Roksana hungered for it. The same way that she did, herself.

Roksana deserved that freedom. All of the females did.

“You have Caerleon today,” Nesta observed.

When Lorrian had arrived at the training rings, the manticore had been padding silently byhis side. It had only taken Caer moments to spot Cassian. Nesta had noticed the beast’s ears prick forward, but rather than bounding over to the General, he had remained close by Lorrian, his spiked tail flicking leisurely from side to side as his hips swayed. And the Illyrians… they had stepped backwards, their eyes wary as they took in Caer’s huge body and impressive wings. To them, he was a deadly predator under Lorrian’s control. It certainly made a statement. It told them that Lorrian was not to be messed with. 

It hadn’t stopped Caer from pushing his head into Nesta’s hand when he had passed her, or butting his head lightly into Cassian’s midriff. The action had been enough to tell any watchful eyes that Caer held an allegiance with them — that they were his to protect.

“Yes,” Lorrian replied. “Frawley insists that Caer likes to stretch his wings, but I think she likes to know that having a manticore reminds the Illyrians that they would be wrong to challenge my authority.”

Nesta’s lips twitched upwards. “And does it work?”

Lorrian snorted. “It certainly makes them cautious.” He turned to Nesta, then. “Cassian says you chose the bow.”

“Yes.”

To Nesta’s surprise a pleased expression wound itself across Lorrian’s face. “Would you like another instructor?”

Nesta blinked at the Colonel. “You want to teach me how to use the bow?”

Lorrian crossed his arms firmly across his chest, as if to demonstrate that he was immovable on the subject. “Of course. I’ve been told you’re formidable in the sparring ring. I’d be honoured to teach you how to fight with my weapon of choice.”

Nesta studied Lorrian’s expression, tilting her head to try and decipher whether he was being serious or not. In the end, she dropped her emotional shield and felt around until she found that air of heat laced with sandalwood - Lorrian. And she felt…no humour. No mocking. Only honestly.

Feeling guilty for having doubted him, Nesta stacked up her wall again. 

“I would like that,” she conceded. 

A smile broke across Lorrian’s face. It wasn’t the true, unfettered smile she had been privy to in his home, but it was unguarded and genuine enough. “Frawley wants you to come and visit. Perhaps I could oversee some of your training whilst you are with us? Otherwise, I can give you a lesson when I’m here to oversee the aerial legions. It would only be once a week, so I’ll have to trust you in the hands of that brute for the rest of it.” Winking, he jerked his head to Cassian who was striding towards them through the mud. 

“You don’t have to visit,” Lorrian added, seeing Nesta’s taken aback expression, “but we would love to have you.”

Nesta thought of the warm cottage, a place that brought only a sense of comfort despite the way she had first ended up there. And… Nesta liked Frawley as much as she liked Lorrian. The witch was brusque and direct, but clearly kind-of-heart. Someone who predominantly chose to heal rather than injure. 

Perhaps Nesta could use the opportunity to take up Frawley’s offer of mastering her healing magic. It was the first strand of her power that Nesta truly liked. It felt like it was a manifestation of the most secret part of her, a chamber which barely anyone knew about or understood. That she did not thirst for her ability to bring about death, but to give life to those who deserved it.

The thought sent a thrum of power through her veins, silver turning over to give way for white light.

“No,” Nesta assured Lorrian, who was still looking at her with reserved expectation. “I would like to come.”

“Come where?” Cassian asked as he drew up beside them, so close that his chest was inches from Nesta’s side.

“I’m going to visit Frawley and Lorrian next week.”

Mock-wounded, Cassian threw a hand to his heart as he said to Lorrian, “And you didn’t ask me? One of your oldest friends?” His eyes were sparkling when Nesta craned her neck to look up at him. He winked at her and magic spiked in her veins.

Grunting, Lorrian replied wryly, “I don’t know why you’re pretending that you won’t hound us for a visit. Pick up Nesta and come for dinner. We’ll see you the following week for Solstice, anyway.”

At that, Lorrian turned to the manticore who was still lying in the mud, his large almond eyes blinking in the pastel sunlight. “Caer,” Lorrian called, as he started to spread his own wings wide. The manticore stood, stretching slowly with a wide yawn which showcased his long, sharp teeth and his leathery wings. As Caerleon trotted over to Lorrian, his ears perked forwards and his tail shot up so it was engaged and upright, the deadly bristles at the tuft soft rather than pointed. 

“I’ll take you back to the cottage with me when I visit next week then,” Lorrian told Nesta. He looked to Cassian, “Start Nesta on the basics before then.” 

And then, with a wide stretch of his large wings, he shot into the air.

* * *

Mas found Nesta shortly after Lorrian had left. She and Roksana were the only females left in the sparring grounds. In the distance, Nesta could see the last of the retreating figures of the widows as they made their way back to their new camp, which was set up at the back of the mountain pass, not far from the sparring rings. The new camp was full of green pine trees and forest floor rather than treacherous, ominous rock and battering winds.

“Come,” Mas urged to Nesta, taking her by the hand. “Not you,” she told Cassian firmly, but he had only grinned in that unbridled way of his, before he shot into the skies in search of breakfast. 

Together, Nesta and Mas walked up the mountain to the old widows camp with Roksana in tow. Nesta watched the youngling skim across the patches of deep snow. The path was a blanket of white, but despite the bite in Nesta’s feet, she did not complain. Nor did she moan about the dull ache in her side. Instead, she walked hand-in-hand with the housekeeper, allowing Mas to lead her up the zig zag path until they reached the even ground.

The destruction and death in the camp had been covered by the snow, but Nesta could still feel it: the sorrow, pain and terror seeping into her skin, lining her stomach in a waythat was so intense that her power surged. Yet, Nesta did not try to push the sensation away as Mas led her with purpose to the Eastern side of the camp. They passed the makeshift canteen, the shell of tents scattered with snow and the rusted fire drums, until they reached the far point where Mas had lain on the ground as the life bled out of her.

The mountain wall loomed up into the dusky sky to their left, running until the ground round at the tip, leaving only a sheer, terrifying drop to the right. 

When Mas stopped, so did Nesta. Roksana was a little way off, approaching the edge, and Mas scolded her to come back before she fell off the precipice.

Roksana skimmed over the stone, her little wings flapping at a rate that was faster than normal, as if she had to work extra hard to stay aloft. She collided with Mas’s legs, but the housekeeper only tutted in a way that held no bite, before bending to press a kiss to the little girl’s head and ordering her to stand back.

Nesta did not say anything. Not even as Mas clasped her dry, weathered hands in Nesta’s and peered into her face. 

“Diyosa,” Mas said quietly, her voice brimming with feeling — love and anticipation — as she led Nesta slowly to the edge, carefully stepping backwards. “I wanted you to see it first. I wanted you to witness the freedom you have granted me.” 

Despite the tears lining her eyes, a toothy grin spread across the housekeeper’s face. 

Nesta watched Mas stretch her wings out wide, the movement slow and purposeful, as if she were flexing unused muscles.

And then she stepped backwards off the cliff. 

For a second, Nesta was consumed with a terror that gripped fiercely at her throat, but then the boom of wings sounded around the mountain pass and Mas soared up on the wind, her beautiful wings beating hard as she caught an upward draft to climb above them.

Beside her, Roksana let out a cry. Her little hands clapped together and from her mouth… a laugh. Not one of Roksana’s small, secret smiles, but a delighted laugh that was so joyous it rang around the mountain wall.

And it was that, coupled by the whoop of delight from the housekeeper, that made Nesta laugh, too.

Nesta could not remember the first time she had truly laughed. As if it were a forbidden sound, her hands flew up to clap over her mouth, but then Roksana was hovering high enough in the air to pull them away, tearing off that mask that desperately wanted to cling on out of years and years of habit. 

And Nesta allowed the youngling to do it. Clasped her fingers around Roksana’s as for the first time that Nesta could remember — through the tears of happiness that poured down her face — Nesta felt joy. 

So Nesta laughed. She laughed for the female flying above her who had got her freedom back. For the little youngling who was holding onto Nesta’s hands as she hovered in the air, her wings flapping in desperation to join Masak… to taste freedom, too. And Nesta laughed for herself. For having finally done something right. For giving life rather than death. For bringing happiness rather than sorrow.

Then Mas was diving, her form flawless as she swooped down to take Roksana’s hands in hers, taking the youngling up, up, up into the Illyrian sky brushed with pastel hues. 

That was when it happened. Nesta’s laugh fell into an untethered smile… a smile which had been imprisoned for so long. And as she did that, Nesta allowed her magic to reach out again… to sense the emotions that seeped up from the ground from years and years of suffering. But Nesta did not let them surge through her veins to charge her power. Instead, she gave something back. Nesta added a new layer upon the rocky ground that was tainted with death and pain. A comforting blanket of her own joy and happiness. A layer that symbolised that there was hope. That there was a way out of the inky black and the biting cold.

And the camp, which had been full of anguish and pain and unimaginable suffering, suddenly burst with light so pure that it was dazzling. The promise of healing shone from Nesta’s palms, and she stared down at her upturned hands in awe. At the light which travelled upwards to bathe the two females dancing in the air, as they laughed and laughed and laughed. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday guys! I had a technical difficulty today so this chapter update nearly didn’t happen, but here I am, earlier than usual. Against all of the odds 😂
> 
> I really love this chapter. I hope you do, too. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts 😊 and as usual, sorry for any typos. I had to edit this entire thing on my iPad which had me ripping my hair out 😩

**Chapter 26**   
**Nesta**

Solstice approached with terrifying speed. Somehow, Azriel managed to carve out time in what Nesta imagined to be a busy schedule to oversee her training when she was in Windhaven. Nesta did not know if that was simply because Rhysand did not want to hold true to his promise to train her himself, or if the Shadowsinger was doing them all a favour by keeping the two of them separate for a little longer.

Nesta could not say that she was disappointed. Whilst there had been a slight shift in the air between them, Nesta was not deluded enough to think that her sister’s arrogant mate had found it in himself to let go of the grudge he so obviously held against her. From the moment they had met in the Human Realm, Nesta had sensed his disdain and simmering anger towards her. Had dissected what he thought was a flawless exterior as something too careful, too polite. It had not quite been as if he was treading on eggshells, but as if he was having to use all of his power to reign in his own temper.

Yet, to Elain... that resentment and hatred had faded into acceptance and forgiveness over time. The same could not be said for he and Nesta. Even though it had been she who had fought and sacrificed her life in the war. Even though she had saved Cassian from the Cauldron’s blast. And even though it had been she who had killed the King, tracked the Cauldron and acted as Emissary, Feyre’s mate had been unable to hide the anger that Nesta had allowed her sister to provide for them when they were young.

So, Nesta had made it worse, testing the waters of that night eternal power to see how far she could go until he snapped completely. If their High Lord wasn’t going to bother to try and see the effort Nesta had made, then she would make life hell for him when she started to drown. She spent his coffers, banished her sisters and wrapped her words in thorns of steel. For some, it was not unlike the work of a petulant child desperate for a reaction. For Nesta, it was a method of slow, numbing destruction until she became nothing but a husk. It had been far more dangerous and much deadlier then any of them had imagined, and now Nesta was out of the other side, she understood why Cassian had look so ravaged when he had searched her face and assaulted her with words that should have been like spears to the heart but never hit home.

Even so, Rhys’s hatred of Nesta was a punishment she believed was deserved. Nesta knew that. And she would not take job offerings which were given out of loving duty and obligation to one’s mate. Nesta would only work for a court she did not view as hers if it was because she had worth and use. If she was needed rather than an irritant one wanted to banish.

This time had been different. The Illyrian cause was greater than the shattered pride Nesta would endure by assisting someone she did not want to be around. And Nesta had vowed to step out of the past and into the present. Had decided she would try with her sisters and start to rebuild who she wanted to be. Nesta did not want to be someone who selfishly stood on the sidelines whilst others suffered. It was true that she had been a victim and made others a victim of her trauma, but she was done weighing up old grievances and her many errors. She would bite her tongue and step forward into the present. And if that meant learning to be civil then Nesta would do it for the females and for Cassian, who she could not bear to make life harder for.

To think that Nesta might cause him to ache made it hard to breathe. So, should the situation demand it, Nesta had decided she would rise above it. She was strong. She was resilient. She was powerful.

She would protect and heal.

Nesta supposed her goals were the same as the rest of the Inner Circle, after all.

When it came to mastering her ability to read others emotions, Nesta found the power now came to her as easy as breathing. With the acceptance of her magic - the understanding that it was part of who she was and who she wanted to be - Nesta found it far easier to lower her walls.

Identifying and concentrating on one target was where she had difficulty, but in the end, even Azriel gave more and more praise in that solemn, cold way of his rather than constructive criticism.

“It’s all down to practice now,” the Shadowsinger had told Nesta after their last training session, as they walked through the camp back to the bungalow. “You know how to do it. It’s just a matter of tuning out the unwanted emotions of others and focussing on those that matter.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Nesta had replied, biting back a grimace. Sometimes she found the background ‘noise’ so overwhelming she wanted to vomit.

“It’s nothing you can’t master,” Azriel replied dismissively, in the way that Nesta had learnt to be a compliment. “As long as you hold on to something as a tether - something to ground you that will always pull you back and stop you from becoming overwhelmed - you will be fine.”

Nesta had glanced sideways at the Shadowsinger as they stepped up to the backdoor of the bungalow. Azriel often stayed for dinner after their training sessions, and Nesta found that she did not mind him joining she and Cassian’s shared space, mainly because it gave her the opportunity to witness the brothers relationship up close.

Whilst Cassian and Azriel might not have been related by blood, their interactions were bound in a way that melded them by flesh and bone regardless. And to Nesta’s surprise, she found that in a smaller group the Shadowsinger was not so quiet. He had a dry wit about him that often had Nesta biting back a smirk, especially as it was usually directed at Cassian, who would either gape in surprise or let out an unabashed bark of laughter that was so lovely it made Nesta want to both stare and look away.

“Do you have a tether?” Nesta asked Azriel curiously as she held her palm to the door. It was a blunt question that she only dared ask because she had no doubt that Azriel would swiftly cut her down if he did not want to answer.

“Of course,” Azriel replied as they stepped into the kitchen.

Cassian was by the sink, the sleeves of his tunic pushed up to his elbows as he washed some grains under the tap. He dared to wink at her as she entered, but he didn’t offer any other formal greeting.

Her blood heated and she ducked down to untie the laces on her boots.

“What is it?” She demanded.

Ariel had already made quick work of his boots, but he flung his wings out of the door to rid them of melted snowflakes. “What’s yours?” he had countered in that chilled way of his, knowing that she would not dare tell him. Would not tell anyone.

So, she had merely snorted in response, quickly disappearing in search of a hot shower before either of them could guess what she was thinking, dare her mask slip and render her readable. 

On Solstice morning, Nesta found herself naturally rising with the dawn, even though Cassian had told her that it was the one day of the year that Illyrian’s did not train. Crawling out of bed to open the curtains, Nesta had sat in the window seat to stare out at the ethereal, low mists that shrouded the mountain pass and horizon in moving fog. Not for the first time, she wished she were already halfway up the mountainside; a part of the natural scenery rather than separated by glass, so she could see unhindered, the dusky streaks of colour painted across the sky and the yellow strip of light that signalled the sun was ready to start the day.

Nesta was first to breakfast. Cassian had been in Velaris the evening before and Nesta had not been awake to see him arrive back in Windhaven. He smelt distinctly of stale alcohol as he joined her in the kitchen, dressed in a pair of low slung pants and nothing else but wild hair and endless tan skin licked with ink that made her skin itch.

Sleepily, Cassian batted Nesta away from the stove as if she were an irritating fly, but she only hissed at him with such malice that he barked a hoarse laugh. When she thumped a mug of coffee by his side moments later, she did it with much more force than she usually mustered so early in the morning, and she caught his features soften for a fraction of a second, before he made himself busy at the stove.

They ate eggs and smoked salmon on toasted rye in relative silence, and Nesta watched Cassian proceed to eat two ginormous portions with a mixture of disgust and awe.

When Nesta loftily gave in to the temptation and asked Cassian whether he had considered saving himself for the Solstice feast, he had just snorted and told her that he was stretching his stomach. After that, Nesta was certain that he ate a third portion just to spite her, but even she couldn’t help but slide another piece of smoked salmon onto her plate, much to her chagrin when Cassian’s eyes glinted triumphant.

It was an hour later when a knock sounded at her bedroom door. Nesta was in the process of pinning her hair with the golden leaf pin Elain had sent her all those weeks ago, and she answered the door with one hand whilst the other held her hair in place.

“Are you ready?” Cassian asked as soon as the door opened.

For once, he was not leaning against the doorframe, but standing upright in a wide stance which highlighted just how broad and tell he was.

There was a look of impatience on his face, but Nesta paid it no heed and took a moment to survey how different he looked from usual. Today’s festivities had turned him out in dark pants and a shirt, the collar of which sat just below ink which whorled up the right side of his neck, stopping a few inches below his ear. The clothing made him appear the most human Nesta had ever seen him, if it had not been for the apex of his huge wings which he was holding high behind him.

As if they sensed her attention, his wings flexed in a movement that usually told Nesta that Cassian was either uncomfortable or nervous. They spread wide enough for Nesta to notice how magnificently they shone, as if they had been thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned for the occasion. Even Cassian’s hair gleamed, as if he had run a brush through it before it had scraped it back into a loose bun.

He looked unforgivably, heart-stoppingly handsome, not that Nesta would ever admit it out loud.

Ignoring the unusually apprehensive expression on his face, Nesta frowned and secured the pin at the back of her head. “Am I late?”

She had thought she had given herself plenty of time to get ready, but her half coronet had taken longer than usual. It appeared that three months of only wearing a simple plait had her out of practice. At least she had worn a loose braid overnight, which meant that her hair already hung in soft waves down her back. She knew that the Night Court dressed up on Solstice, and Nesta liked Lorrian and Frawley enough that she did not want to offend them.

Nesta had stayed with them twice since the kerit attack at Windhaven, where she had spent her days learning the art of the bow with Lorrian and practicing her healing powers with Frawley.

And the bow… Nesta loved it. It felt right in her hands, the way her muscles strained and trembled as she pulled back the string. Cassian and Lorrian had her working hard on her upper arm strength to the point that they felt constantly sore, but she did not care. Lorrian and Frawley had even taught her how to fly on Caerleon, with Lorrian insisting that when she was more able, they could practice shooting a moving target. Nesta had the sneaking suspicion that both of them had quickly realised that she hungered for the skies, but she did not mind that they had read her so easily. Being on the back of Caerleon, her fingers buried deep in the mane at his neck, was the most liberated Nesta had ever felt, to the point that she had laughed when the manticore had sent her into a nose dive and the wind had howled so fast around them that Nesta and Caer had become a part of the element rather than separate from it.

When Nesta had not been training with Lorrian, Frawley was teaching her how to harness her healing power. The witch had Nesta look inwards to her two strands of her magic, until Nesta could pick them apart with ease, summoning either silver or white at her palms. When she had mastered that, Frawley had plucked flower after flower from the forest floor, had them wither in her open palm and ordered Nesta to bring them back to life.

It wasn’t so much bringing things back from the brink of death that Nesta struggled with, rather it was knowing when to stop. The key, Frawley had told Nesta, was to constantly observe the patient as she healed. To understand what injuries were fresh and required immediate life-saving attention and what was old enough to be left well alone. The former always shone with a pressing light when Nesta’s magic passed over it, whereas the latter took on a dull, shadowy quality. There was also the matter that Nesta’s power reserves could swell to unprecedented levels, of which the bottom was determined by the energy she had sequestered.

The solution, Frawley had told Nesta, was to know what her reserves felt like, so that when her magic started to give out Nesta would know to stop. 

That had been easier said than done, and it had taken Nesta hours to reach into herself and travel down, down, down to scrape the bottom of her own power. 

“You will know when you reach it,” Frawley had only told Nesta with an infuriatingly mysterious air that had Nesta wanting to snarl.

But she had. It tasted like the last, bitter dregs of tea and metallic blood. It felt wrong and life threatening, enough for Nesta to pull away so sharply that Frawley had patted a shaking Nesta on the shoulder and passed her a steaming mug of energising tea.

But what Nesta hadn’t told Frawley was that she didn’t just sense white and silver when she looked within herself, but something else. Something hidden behind a veiled curtain which she couldn’t quite touch. A terrified part of Nesta wondered if it was the chunk of the Cauldron she had taken. The piece of inky black which sung of darkness and terror. Nesta had not found the words to ask Frawley about it. Was too scared about what it meant. That perhaps there was something rotting inside of her that would taint her soul and those around her.

It sung to her, the veil. It whispered reverently when she brushed against it. Her name over and over: _Nesta, Nesta, Nesta._

She had stayed well away from it, after that, but sometimes she heard it whisper softly, the sensation like her power turning over in her veins.

Like now, as Cassian stared at her rather than reply, his hazel eyes darkening as his pupils widened and pressed against his irises. 

Nesta tried and failed not to feel self-conscious. She smoothed down her midnight blue dress and walked past him, her back straight.

“You’ll need to shield my hair,” Nesta clipped, as she headed to the hooks by the door and slipped on her coat.

When she turned, Cassian was still staring at her with something that Nesta almost wished was longing.

She wanted to bite her lip, but she wouldn’t allow herself to do it. “Aren’t we going to be late?” she clipped.

Slowly, Cassian blinked. Then, his gaze dropped to her feet. “Are you going to wear those shoes?”

Nesta scowled. “Yes.”

“They’re not practical for flying.”

“I’m not flying, I’m being carried. And is it not custom to dress nicely for Solstice?”

She stiffened as those sharp eyes dragged over her body with such intensity Nesta felt as if her skin were entirely bare.

“It is custom,” Cassian agreed eventually, his voice so impossibly low she felt it rumble through her bones. Even as there was a bite to his words that suggested he was holding something back. 

Perhaps how she had not bothered the year prior.

Nesta nodded as if to indicate that the matter was settled and wound a scarf around her neck. “Don’t set me down in any mud or snow and I won’t find it in myself to set you on fire.”

A derisive snort but no jab or jest as he opened the front door. Cassian stepped onto the concrete step just beyond the threshold and with a flare of his siphons, light-weight armour clicked into place scale by scale over his dark clothes, the action like a ripple of water.

He held out his hand to her. Nesta glared at him but squeezed onto the step beside him. His hands wrapped around her, gathering her to his impossibly warm body and the steady, reliable beating of his heart. He smelt wonderful — of woodland and bracing blue sky which sung Illyria. Begrudgingly, Nesta held on to him, absorbing herself even more in his scent as he shot them into the sky.

They travelled in silence for a long while, Cassian unnervingly quiet. Usually it was he who struck up conversation and Nesta found it disconcerting to be yearning to speak with him rather than the other way around.

She twisted her head up to look at him: the dark eyebrows that always made his hazel eyes stand out so brilliantly; the tan, freshly shaved face which took the ruggedness out of his features; the ebony hair pulled back into a casual bun that she had come to favour on him.

To his credit, Cassian had listened to her about her own hair, casting a shield that was void of the gentle breeze he usually allowed to filter through. Instead, Nesta was warm, the

gentle pulse of his siphons indicating that he was expelling his magic to alter the temperature for them both.

“You look clean,” Nesta observed, when she knew she had studied him for too long. He was deliberately not acknowledging her blatant staring. “Is this your first and only bath this year?”

Cassian snickered. “Very good, sweetheart. It’s good to see that the festivities haven’t smoothed over your sharp edges.”

“I wouldn’t want to bore you,” Nesta remarked drily, watching the craggy terrain; the snow capped mountains and the stretch of pine ahead of them. “Consider it a Solstice present.”

A laugh then, soft and throaty. More like himself. “You’ll have to save that fire for the lords tomorrow, sweetheart. It is no way to speak to your beloved.”

Sharply, Nesta craned her neck up to find him smiling down at her. It was a wicked smile that Nesta suspected he had willed into existence solely to stoke her fire.

“What,” she spat. Demanded.

Cassian’s canines flashed. “Consider me your Solstice present. I’d have wrapped myself in a bow, but we were in a rush.”

Nesta glared at him with such ferocity she imagined him burning into cinders. “And when were you planning to tell me that I have to pretend that we’re...” She trailed off, suddenly at a loss to carry on.

“Dating? Courting? Fucking?” Cassian said the last word with a grin that turned feral.

Nesta snarled at him with such savagery that Cassian choked on a laugh. His hazel eyes flared amber.

“If you start smoking I’ll have to drop you,” he warned, as silver sparked from her fingertips. “And I planned on telling you now,” he admitted. There was no apology in his voice, if anything it only carried amusement and a faint layer of… something else. “I thought it best to tell you when we were suspended in midair for my safety.”

“Insufferable,” Nesta muttered under her breath, irritated that she could not let go of him and cross her arms over her chest. “Not only am I to be stuck in a room full of Illyrians, but I have to pretend to be bedding the most irritating of them all.”

“Feel free to boast about my technique to those assholes at any point,” Cassian snickered wryly, but then his playfulness dropped at his next words. Nesta suspected he’d glanced down and seen her solemn expression, “Think of it as an unpleasant few hours for the sake of finding out more information.”

“Who do you usually take?”

A beat of silence followed her demand. Then, “Nobody.”

A disbelieving frown pinched between her eyebrows. “Ever? Not even your friends?”

She craned her neck to look up at him.

“It’s partners only,” Cassian explained, but he was looking ahead of them with an intensity that told Nesta he was deliberately not meeting her eye. “I very rarely have one and never one who I think could hold their own amongst the vultures.”

Some tension bled out of Nesta. She would have thought that Mor might have accompanied him at some point. Those lines were so blurred Nesta had no idea what to make of them other than that she hated it. Would never not hate it. 

The amusement had faded from Cassian’s features and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He suddenly seemed angry and Nesta didn’t know whether it was her reaction or another memory. And perhaps her reaction to pretending to court had wounded him, especially given their turbulent past. Sometimes Nesta did not know where they stood with the other. The bond strung between them made everything so complicated, so much more difficult than other narratives. To understand what was fact and fiction. Lust and love.

The thought of pretending they were together, even for two days made it difficult to breathe. It was another twist in their storyline - another complicated strand, which warped what was honest and true.

“Don’t worry, Illyrians aren’t big on public displays of affection,” Cassian assured her, breaking her out of her worrisome thoughts. His dark eyes found hers again, and they looked a little sad, as he admitted, “The males here don’t cherish females the way they should.”

It took everything in Nesta to suppress the shiver that wanted to crash over her body and remain silent. They were tiptoeing around today, using banter and sharp words to cover up what had happened last year. How she had dismissed him so brutally… so effectively. How she had heard the water splash and ripple as he threw her gift in the river. How he had followed her anyway until she lit a light in her apartment, his wings a steady beat as she sunk to the rickety, splintered floorboards utterly numb.

It was not Cassian’s cruel words from that evening that haunted her — not even hers did — but it was oddly the vulnerability in his expression as he finally let her leave that repeatedly churned in the forefront of her mind. That made her think that perhaps Cassian had been genuine. That he wasn’t embarrassed of her, even if his actions — the way he ignored her when his friends were around — insinuated that he did. That he truly had wanted her, enough to swallow his pride and follow her. To continue to flirt and fight for her, even now.

But when Nesta remembered how he had laughed as he held up the satin undershorts from Mor, red slid over her vision.

Cassian seemed to sense that displeasure, remaining silent for the duration of the journey.

Caer trotted out to meet them as soon as they landed outside Lorrian and Frawley’s, his tufted tail dancing in the shape of a question mark. Smoke billowed from the crooked chimney of the cottage and the smells that wafted towards them on the soft breeze were so divine Nesta’s stomach grumbled.

Frawley met them at the open stable door, and to Nesta’s surprise, she bent to place a swift kiss on each of Nesta’s cheeks. She was wearing another dark dress the colour of smoke, the underskirts laced with a misty tulle that shimmered beautifully in the light.

“Happy Solstice, Nesta,” Frawley said brusquely. “We’re being thrown to the wolves tomorrow so we’ll have to make today a pleasant one.”

Cassian’s laugh was low in Nesta’s ear. “If past experience is anything to go by, I’d predict that Nesta will be the wolf and they the sheep,” he corrected, as they both stepped into the warmth of the cottage.

Lorrian appeared behind Frawley as he stepped into the hallway from the living room. His chuckle was deep and delighted. “I’m looking forward to witnessing that.”

Frawley’s grin was terrifying as she levelled her gaze with Nesta’s. “Surely they do not still think you’re a witch after the kerit attack?”

“No,” Nesta said slowly, thinking of Devlon’s begrudging acceptance of her. How the Illyrians no longer looked as if they might spit at her. At the distance the males gave her, as if she were finally a threat rather than a pawn in their game. “They don’t know what I am.”

“That probably terrifies them more,” Cassian told Nesta with a devilish grin as they followed Lorrian and Frawley into the living room.

Like the rest of the house, fresh greenery had been wound into garlands around the room. Beautifully arranged teardrop swags hung beneath the faelights on the white-washed walls: bundles of pine, cones, holly and its ruby berries, ivy and honeysuckle vines.

“Mulled wine,” Frawley told Nesta, thrusting a large mug into her hand. “I’ve magicked it to remove the alcohol. It practically tastes the same. Lorrian likes it, anyway.”

“It’s the closest I’ve had to the real thing,” Lorrian told Nesta with an easy grin as he finally moved forward to greet her. He bent to kiss both of her cheeks in an air of heat laced with sandalwood, the close cut of his stubble rough against her skin. “You look beautiful, as usual,” he told her.

Nesta’s snort was a soft dismissal, but she was secretly pleased. The dress she was wearing had hung off her months ago. She’d still had Mas take it in a little, but she saw her outfit as a symbolic triumph, having finally gained back the majority of the weight she had lost so dangerously after months and months of denying herself sustenance.

“Come,” Frawley beckoned to Nesta, “I’ve put your armchair close to the fire. You’re as bad as Caerleon. Sometimes I think he’d sit on top of the hearth if he could.”

Nesta’s lips twitched but she didn’t comment. It was true that now Nesta could light fires of her own, she could enjoy sitting by the hearth without fearing that it might send her into a downward spiral. Not that Frawley hadn’t taken care of that herself the two times she had visited, and as expected, the fire was already silently eating the glowing wood that had been stacked into the grate.

At the mention of his name, Caerleon padded towards Nesta just as she took a seat in the armchair and pressed his large head into Nesta’s lap. Burying her fingers into the beast’s soft, shaggy mane with her spare hand, Nesta huffed a laugh as the manticore let out a low whine in greeting.

“How do you usually celebrate Solstice, Nesta?” Lorrian asked conversationally, as he seated himself in the twin armchair opposite her and stretched out his long legs.

Nesta didn’t have to glance at Cassian from where he had settled on the low-back couch to know that his expression had turned tight. She felt the trepidation in her stomach. The more and more she dropped her emotional guard, the more keenly she felt him, even through the shield of fire he had resurrected around himself.

“Solstice isn't celebrated in the Human Realm,” Nesta replied in a way that she hoped came across as unaffected.

“Of course it isn’t,” Frawley interjected, glaring at her husband with an intensity Nesta was glad she was not on the receiving end of.

“Well, the good thing about Solstice is the food,” Lorrian told Nesta with an easy grin. “If you need a motivation to start celebrating it.”

Nesta harrumphed in the back of her throat. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Speaking of food...” Cassian started hopefully.

Frawley rolled her eyes but dumped a plate of pastries unceremoniously into the warrior’s lap. “Lorrian made these solely to tide you over until dinner.” She tutted as Cassian began to tuck in with gusto. “I’ve never witnessed anybody eat so much and I live with an Illyrian. Did you train this morning?”

“No,” Cassian said around a mouthful of pie. His voice was incredulous — offended, even. “It’s Solstice, witch, or have you forgotten in your old age?”

“I would not put it past you to train three hundred and sixty-five days of the year,” Frawley snapped in retort, “for fear that one day off would have those muscles of yours shrinking.”

When Frawley’s ice blue eye rested on Nesta, it was not sparking with anger but amusement, even as her face remained impassive. She and Cassian often bantered like this; with Frawley seemingly infuriated and Cassian prodding insults. “Am I wrong, Nesta?”

Nesta did not try to fight the slight curve of her lips, she was too amused by Cassian’s mouth which had gone slack. Thankfully, it wasn’t full of food. “No, he preens and puffs like a rooster.”

Lorrian threw his head back and laughed. Frawley snorted with delight. Grinning, Cassian stood to offer Nesta a mince pie with twinkling eyes.

Surprised, Nesta cocked a challenging eyebrow at him.

What she had said wasn’t true. Cassian’s physique was all to do with being a cut above the rest. He trained with an intensity that sung of a determination to prove that he was worthy. He allowed his body to become battered and bloody, his knuckles bruised and his hands calloused. He wore scars as if they were armour… as if they were akin to the black tattoos that licked up his body. Symbols of luck and glory and proof that he would endure, above all else.

So much of Cassian was worn on the surface if you chose to look.

And she certainly wasn’t complaining about his figure. Even if just staring at the corded muscles of his body made her fill with a liquid heat that both embarrassed and thrilled her… She had wondered on more than one occasion what it might feel like to straddle the vast width of him… to allow her fingernails to bite into his sizeable shoulders as she sank down onto him. The way he’d groan, the sound guttural in the depths of his throat. She had dreamt about it more times than she’d like to admit. She knew what it felt like to have his phantom lips bruise her skin and his teeth scrape at her pulse point. Knew what it felt like for that relentless drive to hound her blood, each throb of her veins pulling her towards him.

But if her blood was desire, her mind was logic and she knew why she felt like that. Why he felt like it too, sometimes.

So she kept her ribcage close around her heart. It was a shield rendered with gaps but it worked just fine if she fortified it with ice.

Those glowing amber eyes did not leave hers as she took a sweet pastry dusted with sugar from the plate. For a terrified moment, Nesta thought that he knew what she had been thinking, but then he turned to Frawley and said with such casualness it took her a moment for the words to sink in, “Not all of us can look as effortlessly devastating as Nesta.”

Cassian didn’t look at her for a while, after that.

* * *

The day was not like the previous Solstice: full of gifts and banter that she was not a part of. Nesta did not spend her time shying away in the corner for fear that the fire would make her power finally roar.

There was food. Lots of variety without being excessive. Roast meat, potatoes and steamed vegetables. Battered savoury pudding, gravy and pigs in blankets. Nesta ate more than she usually would, each dish so delicious she could not help what she piled onto her plate until she was practically bursting at the seams.

Afterwards, Nesta helped Frawley to carry the dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Lorrian had done the majority of the cooking and Frawley had woefully admitted that meant it was her job to clean up. Nesta had risen without thinking and in a blink of an eye she had her hands submerged in water and bubbles.

Frawley was telling Nesta that it was she and Lorrian’s anniversary the day before Solstice. That they had decided to become chroi on that day many years ago, and had the magic seal their intents a few hours later.

Despite Frawley’s fierce edges, the witch softened when she spoke of her husband in a way that told Nesta that the love ran deep. Not that Nesta couldn’t see that plainly before her whenever the two were in a room. They had a way of moving together that was completely at ease: respectful and kind and pure and accepting. 

It made Nesta hungry for the love she had read about in her books. But she knew better than to believe she was deserving of it.

“How did you know Lorrian was the one?” Nesta asked curiously, as Frawley detailed how they had decided to intertwine their lives the same day in front of the other witches.

Taking a plate from Nesta, Frawley began to dry it with a seriousness that told Nesta that she was thinking hard. “I’ve lived a long life,” Frawley said eventually. “After a while, night and day become repetitive. Boring. I didn’t realise I’d fallen into a rut until I met Lorrian. He made me feel alive again.” She shrugged, the action unlike Frawley as she pinned Nesta with both her eyes. “And Caer liked him. Caer has always been an extension of me in some ways, so I knew that Lorrian was right. We fit like two puzzle pieces. We didn’t try to change who we were for the other, but our love made us happier, more content, even in the face of great challenges.”

Nesta wondered if Frawley was referring to their lost witchlings as well as Lorrian’s arm. She could not imagine losing something so precious. The thought made her heart ache with such intensity she wanted to run away for a moment, before she reminded herself that emotion was part of life. It was better than being numb.

Nesta wanted to see the world in colour, not in black and white. Training with Azriel had taught her that. 

“It must be nice,” Nesta observed after a moment, “to know you both chose one another. That you had a choice.”

Both eyes swivelled to rest on Nesta’s face. The effect was alarming. Nesta was used to them moving independently rather than together. “Everyone has a choice in love, Nesta.”

Nesta opened her mouth to speak but then Lorrian and Cassian entered the kitchen laden with more dirty dishes. Lorrian mentioned a dessert he needed to take out of the larder and Frawley turned to help him.

Whilst Nesta’s stomach was full in a way that was uncomfortable, her ears perked up at the thought of something sweet, as if it would cut through her savoury food coma.

“I have something I’d like to show you,” Cassian said into Nesta’s ear, as Frawley batted away her husband with a tea towel. He was trying to take the pudding she was carrying from her. “Will you come with me?”

Nesta cast a look at Lorrian and Frawley, but they were still both fussing over the Christmas pudding to notice them. So she nodded and followed him out the back door and into the crisp night air. Already a layer of frost dusted the greenery on the forest floor and pine needles, but Cassian quickly cast a bubble of warmth around them. It had not snowed, a rarity for this time of year Cassian had told her earlier, especially in Illyria which was usually deep in blankets of snow by now.

Gesturing to the outbuilding to the left of the cottage, Cassian walked ahead of her, his large wings bobbing behind him as he moved. They flared slightly as he slid open the huge wooden door, before quickly tucking themselves back in, no doubt to protect them from the bitter cold wind which was doing its best to cut through his shield.

It took Nesta’s eyes a fraction of a second to adjust to the darkness, her Fae eyes gifting her with far better sight than her human body ever had.

She stared around the barn — the bails of hay, the wooden rafters… 

She twisted to look up at Cassian, a frown on her face. “What am I looking at?

“There," Cassian said with a jut of his chin. Nesta followed the direction he had pointed in and then her eyes went wide.

There, on a makeshift bed of hay was a manticore. It was not like Caer. There was no orange mane, only beautiful sandy fur and a handsome, elegant head, large ears and huge, almond eyes. Her leathery wings were smaller than Caer’s but in proportion to her body and tucked in tight.

Her amber eyes glowed in the dark, that regal head cocking as her gaze clicked into place with Nesta’s. That one look had Nesta’s heart thumping in her chest. It was not from fear, but utter awe.

“Do you know the associations surrounding manticores?” Cassian asked. His voice was low in her ear. Intimate.

Frowning, Nesta dragged her eyes away from the manticore with regret. “They are an apex predator known to devour their prey whole,” Nesta said, reciting what she had been told since she was young. “They are vicious and deadly and cannot be overcome by man.”

But even as she said the words, Nesta knew them not to be true, because she knew Caer. Knew his empathetic heart and the way he had comforted her when she was sad. “Obviously, that’s another human myth that holds no truth,” she finished with a lift to her chin, daring him to laugh.

But Cassian did not mock her, he only nodded. “Yes. Manticores are ruthless creatures and because of their ability to kill with such ease they have been labelled as bringing strife and suffering to the world. But that is not true. Manticores are rare and hard to come by because they are born from the blood of true sacrifice.”

Nesta wondered what Frawley had done to earn Caer’s loyalty. For him to serve her above all others. From what Cassian had told her, Caerleon had been with Frawley for so long even history could not pinpoint an exact date.

“Rhys found this manticore in the spot where you healed Mas.”

A long, long silence. “Frawley took her back to The Steppes to raise her. Manticores grow incredibly quickly, as you can see, but are incredibly vulnerable when they are young, largely because their wings are not fully developed. Fae and humans alike also have a nasty habit of trying to kill young manticores as it is when they are at their weakest. They try to damage their tails so they cannot take life from range and injure their wings so they never develop.

The thought made Nesta’s stomach roll. To harm something so beautiful and pure.

“Sala is only two weeks but she has already taken adult form. Only a fool would try to take her down now.”

“If manticores are so deadly, why isn’t she trying to kill us?” Nesta breathed, her gaze again connecting with the beast’s.

“Because we believe that she is yours, if you want her.”

“She’s mine?” Nesta asked sharply, too surprised to arrange her expression into one of indifference. “How do you know?”

At the words, the manticore raised her beautiful, beautiful head. Golden eyes settled on Nesta as leathery wings unfurled from the beast’s back — stretching — as if she had woken from a long sleep. She rose until she was on her haunches and then her four huge paws.

The beast padded towards them, her hips slinking, her head low and assessing. Yet none of it was threatening. Instead, Nesta only felt a rush of calm as the manticore moved towards them. She stopped in front of Nesta, so close that Nesta could feel the warmth of her breath on her skin, could see that close up the shimmer of gold in Sala’s eyes, the dotted muzzle and the long, pointed incisors.

And then, the beast hopped up onto her haunches, her impossibly large paws coming to rest on Nesta’s shoulders. Despite the enormity of the animal, Nesta remained grounded without having to brace herself. Mesmerising gold filled her vision. It was an ancient, omniscient stare that sung of wisdom and knowledge, of years lived and lived and lived.

And then Nesta saw herself: a reflection of silver-grey; of elegantly pointed ears; of pale skin and pink lips; as if she had become a part of the beast, their lives entangled. Bowing her large head, the manticore closed the distance between them and rubbed her forehead against Nesta’s.

The action was gentle — a familial caress — and when the beast was done, she kept her head against Nesta’s, the gesture solicitous and binding. They breathed together, their chests moving at the same time, and Nesta revelled in the softness of Sala’s fur and the affection that laced the movement. The implication behind it.

“A manticore chooses an owner it deems worthy. Someone pure of heart.”

Cassian’s voice was a low rumble as Sala dropped to all fours. When Nesta twisted around to look at him she found him leaning against the barn, as if he had stepped away to give she and Sala space. His smile was crooked and so beautiful Nesta wanted to touch it; to trace the lines of his mouth where it curved upwards. But most of all, to draw the lines that creased around his eyes that softened the wildness of his features.

“The tuft of her tail is made of silver fire, which is also a giveaway,” Cassian mused, his hazel eyes glowing with what Nesta dissected as amusement. Had she been staring at him a little too long? “Manticores take on elements of their partner.”

Nesta hadn’t even noticed Sala’s tail, but now she could see the trail of silver flame as the tip flicked slowly from side to side in the dark.

The ice that protected everything creaked and cracked at the sight.

Nesta let it. She wanted to refute it — to tell Cassian that he was wrong and Sala wasn’t hers — but the moment Sala had rested her heads on hers, she knew that they were bound together. The manticore made her blood sing, as if their paths were irrevocably entangled in such a beautiful way that Nesta daren’t question it. It was a similar feeling she had encountered when Cassian had delivered the letter in the Human Realm; that compelling pull of destiny.

After the war, Nesta had thought they were done. That she and Cassian had made history and were now travelling on parallel paths of a forked road. But now she was not so sure. She had not been sure for a while now.

“And what if I were of bad intention?” Nesta asked, smoothing her palm over the manticore’s head. The fur was as soft as the finest silk; the touch so divine that Nesta wanted to bury her face in the beast’s ruff and breathe her in again.

A frown worried itself onto Cassian’s expression. Nesta pushed it to the periphery, keeping her attention focussed on Sala.

Nesta had thought revenge would be sweet. Thought that killing the King would have rendered her new and swept away all of the regrets and the pain of the past, but it had only set a deep fear within her. What if her palms only sung death and destruction? What ifshe was evil and cruel and a thorn in the side of everyone she met? What if she was bloodthirsty and she would not stop until she had quenched that thirst?

But when she had dropped to her knees in front of Mas, Nesta had felt a different hum of power; a magic that had been pushed down and quieted but was wholly good. And as Nesta had forged herself anew, she realised that her magic had presented her with a choice. She could be death if she wished. She could cause destruction and wreak havoc but she could also protect and heal. And whilst Nesta had decided who she was, the knowledge that she had the ability to take away life as she pleased still terrified her. The kerits were different. They were not Fae or human. They did not look like her, did not think like her, did not have conscious thought. Their heads did not tumble right, and whilst life disappeared from the depth of their eyes, it was not akin to the way her father’s eyes had faded, his very being sputtering out until there was only vacant emptiness.

Nesta did not want to take life. Not unless she had to.

She was not a killer.

Scar-flecked fingers tilted her chin and urged her to look upwards. Nesta had not heard him move, but she registered his warmth and saw his earnest expression as she stared up into Cassian’s tan face.

“You are not of bad intention,” Cassian said, as if he somehow could sense her self-deprecating thoughts. His voice had dropped; the tone soft, like a brush stroking tenderly against a canvas.

“What would happen?” Nesta insisted. She needed to know. Needed to understand as surely as she needed to understand that she would wake tomorrow and he would still be there; her steady presence. 

“Then Sala would disappear into the ether, as it were. An allegiance can be changed, after all. Manticores are highly intelligent creatures.”

Nesta did not know what to say. Yet, whilst she had no words, she knew with a fierce conviction that she would not allow herself to lose Sala. This beast… she was a gift. Sala was the first true blessing that Nesta had been granted in a life that had only been bleak and cruel.

Sala was hers just as she would be the beast’s. A companion in the grey of her life. Another flicker of light in the dark.

“I thought she would give you more freedom around the camps.”

Nesta blinked. Cassian had dropped his hand but remained close to her. His warmth seeped through her clothing, the sensation welcome in the shadows of the barn. Sometimes Nesta felt as if his warmth was directed solely to heat her limbs.

“I know you must feel limited in where you can go,” Cassian elaborated, stretching his wings slightly. He kept the one closest to her outstretched; a barrier against the cold.

To Nesta’s surprise, Cassian’s cheeks stained a faint pink and he looked away. “I can’t imagine being in Windhaven and not being able to fly,” he confessed. “Sala can carry you about if you want to taste the wind. She can also fight alongside you should you ever need it, both on ground and in the skies.” Another crooked smile as those dark eyes rested back on her, as if he were making himself do it. It nearly knocked the breath from her lungs, the vulnerability in his expression. “She’s not a steed, but perhaps she will become a close second.”

Nesta didn’t know what to do with her body. She felt self-conscious beyond belief, thrown completely by the repeated offering — of freedom. Cassian knew of her growing love of flying. He had truly listened when she confessed that the air rushing around her made her feel alive. That she hungered for it — desperate to gobble up the adrenaline that for the short time, made her feel awake. The rush was akin to an orgasm; the sensation of hot, silky skin sliding against hers as the wave crested and shattered on the shore. Better in some ways. Healthier. More attainable.

Even though words flashed through her mind, Nesta only asked, “Sala?”

Cassian’s lips turned up at the corners as if he were accessing a memory. “It means fire in Illyrian. A temporary name should you wish to call her something else. Although she is rather attached to it, as you can see.”

Indeed, the manticore’s round honey-coloured ears had pricked forward at the sound of her name. She tilted her head slightly at Cassian, as if she were waiting for him to give her a command.

Nesta bent to scratch behind Sala’s ears. 

“But where will she stay?”

It seemed a stupid question to ask, but the words blurted forth anyway.

Cassian shrugged but the gesture appeared relieved. Had he thought she would turn Sala away? He must have asked Frawley to keep the manticore secret so he could show her the beast himself. “She can come into the bungalow if she likes. Manticores are needy creatures who bond fast to their chosen companion. She’ll like to exercise and hunt, but she’ll always want to come home to you. It is in her instincts to protect and serve.”

Silence fell. Nesta brushed her knuckles across the beast’s muzzle, just as she’d seen Frawley do with Caer. Sala’s purr was loud and she dropped to the ground as if she were in heaven, rolling onto her back and stretching her legs out.

Nesta mouth widened into an unstoppable smile at the sight — of the open display of trust and affection which Nesta found so difficult — and squatted down beside the manticore to ruffle her ears.

“Do you like her?”

Cassian’s words caught her, reminding her that he was watching her. His eyes were soft and wide when she twisted to look up at him. The faint ghost of a smile was still hovering on her lips.

“Yes,” she said, in a way that she hoped didn’t come out stiffly. “Very much.” Then she frowned. “What if I’m made to go back to Velaris.”

It was a possibility Nesta couldn’t cast from her mind. Even though Feyre had insisted Nesta could leave Illyria should she want to, Nesta could not help but fear that some event would call her back to their City of Starlight before she chose it herself. That her involvement in court matters would demand her presence. 

Cassian’s expression hardened, showing a hint of the warrior she had been privy to earlier. “I promise you don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to.”

“But what if—"

“I don’t care if it’s demanded of you, Nesta. You never have to go back if you don’t want to.”

The way Cassian spoke was short and dark… and troubled. He truly meant it.

Another creak reverberated in Nesta’s ears as ice tumbled from a glacier. Cassian’s words had reminded her of what she needed to do — what Nesta had known for a while but did not want to admit. It was another path that had been cleared of vines and brambles, but remained laced with thorns. It was not an easy route, but it was what she had chosen. “I do want to go back.”

Everything stilled. The air went taut around them and Cassian’s angry expression shifted into something else entirely.

Nesta watched him open and close his mouth, the movement small but enough to indicate that she had stunned him. Eventually he said, “Ok.”

Another long, long pause. She watched him swallow, the column of his throat moving up and then down as he looked away. “We can move you back, if that’s what you want.”

Arrows formed between her brows as she frowned. Did he think…?

Stupid bat.

“I have no intention of moving back there permanently,” she clipped. “I have things I need to take care of. I’ll go back with you. You said you were going for New Year’s Eve.”

Again, Cassian’s lips parted. “You want to visit?” he asked with a disbelieving frown. “I’m going for a few days. I’ll return New Year’s Day.”

Dread twisted inside of her but Nesta did not let it show. Determination won out. She would not stray from her path. Her intention was bigger then her fear to return back to Velaris, to undoubtedly have to face member’s of the Inner Circle in their home — their territory. Where she had been broken and lost and so numb she could not remember the year that had slid by in a roll of bare flesh and the burn of alcohol.

“Yes, for a visit,” she confirmed. Then, she added, “As long as I don’t have to stay in that wretched new house.”

Cassian looked away from her. “Your apartment is still there.”

Worrying her lip between her teeth, Nesta thought of that cold and dirty apartment with its four locks on the door. She had never felt safe there. And it was not a place for her now. A different Nesta had lived there … and Nesta was not that Fae any longer.

“Where will you stay?” she asked.

“I usually stay with Rhys and Feyre or at the House of Wind.”

“Why don’t you have your own place.”

Cassian laugh was rough and throaty and it made the hairs on her arm stand on end. “Why, would you want to stay there?”

Nesta scowled, even as she asked, “How insufferable would you be if I said yes.”

“Very insufferable,” Cassian assured her, his eyes twinkling.

“No, then,” Nesta replied … and Cassian laughed. The sound was bright and so, so delighted that she couldn’t help the twitch of her lips.

“Shall I send word ahead that you’re coming?”

Nesta shrugged. “If you like.”

A pause.

“Elain will be pleased.”

“Yes,” Nesta said tightly. Already she was starting to backtrack, the thought of heading back to Velaris too much. But then she thought about her purpose and the courage it gave her made her stand that little bit taller. Stiffer… but taller.

“How about this,” Cassian offered, as if he sensed her trepidation. “We won’t send word ahead until the night before. Then you have the night to sleep on it. If you decide you don’t want to go back, nobody is any the wiser and it means you won’t overthink things.” His expression was carefully neutral. “You could even have Sala come to meet you,” he added. “The journey would help to strengthen her wings.”

Armour. He was offering her armour amongst her fire.

Nesta loosed a slow breath and played with Sala’s soft ears. “Ok.”

Then she looked up at him, those stormy eyes suddenly clearing to blue as a small smile crept onto her face — she was still in too much disbelief to control it. “She’s really for me?”

Cassian reached a hand downwards. It hesitated in midair, but when she did not move away his thumb brushed the dimple in her cheek with such reverence something inside of her glowed hot.

“She’s all yours,” Cassian assured her, his expression so soft he looked as young as her. “We can bring her inside now if you like. We’ll have to watch Caer, he’s taken a shine to her.”

* * *

Nesta woke the next morning in the small bedroom she had been allocated at the cottage with Sala spread out on the bed beside her. The manticore’s body was deliciously warm and Nesta raised a hand to scratch behind the animal’s ears.

Already the beast was Nesta’s steadfast companion.

Sala let out a deep rumbling purr that continued to vibrate as she knocked her head gently against Nesta’s in greeting, and Nesta allowed herself a moment to rest her forehead against Sala’s, holding her close and breathing her in. 

The night of festivities had bled into the early hours, and Nesta had only dragged herself to bed when her eyelids had become so heavy she could barely keep them open. 

Blearily, Nesta dragged herself to join her friends for breakfast before heading back upstairs to get ready to fly to Ironcrest. She was just finishing weaving her hair into a coronet, when a knock sounded at the door.

Cassian was wearing elaborate leathers that she had not seen before. He had scraped half of his hair back into a top knot tied tightly with leather and red cloth. The rest hung to his shoulders in gleaming ebony, as if he had deigned to run a brush through his hair yet again.

Nesta considered making a comment about how he had brushed his hair two days in a row but stopped herself at the last minute. There was a tense set to his shoulders that she had not expected to see given yesterday’s festivities. She doubted it was because he was hungover. Nesta had noticed that he had not gorged himself on wine like he had the year prior, only enjoying a few glasses over the course of the day, as if he knew he needed his wits about him for the luncheon. And, she imagined, so as not to drink excessively around her. Not that she hungered for a drink, any longer. She hadn’t for a long time.

The solidity to Cassian’s frame was the sort that he used to wear when she first arrived in Velaris. It was a stance prepared for barbed words and insults, even as he feigned casual joviality. A stance ready for a fight he did not want to participate in.

Perhaps he was worried about today… That was a possibility. She had heard him tell Rhys ‘no’ when he asked them to stay the night at Ironcrest. There had been no contemplation, just fierce, adamant refusal…

Nesta had a feeling it had nothing to do with his safety but her own. And even though Nesta had her silver flames and her beginner’s training in combat, she was still the female who craved four locks on a door before she could go to sleep. The bungalow was different, it had a magical protection that Nesta had cause to doubt, but in a camp where the General and their High Lord were out of favour…

Even as her power moved restlessly beneath her skin, Nesta hoped she and Cassian were sharing a room. She would gladly pretend to be seen as a couple if it meant she would not sleep alone in a strange place. Just the thought of it made her fire want to roar, even as the thought of sleeping beside him made her want to self-combust.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Cassian bent to scratch behind Sala’s ears with a large hand. “Ready to go?”

Nesta’s eyes snagged on the chain dangling from his other hand and her magic gushed through her veins as if it were a flood.

“What’s that?” Nesta asked with a scowl.

For a moment, Nesta actually thought Cassian was going to turn on his heel and leave. A muscle feathered in his jaw, but in the end, he only stepped so close to her she almost had to take a step back to steady herself.

Sala came to sit by Nesta’s side. The manticore stared up at them with her beautiful, almond eyes that shone gold as Cassian thrust a hand out. “Here.”

Nesta stared at the silver chain that dangled from his fist and the pendant that hung from it. It was so odd to see an impossibly broad warrior holding something so delicate that Nesta wanted to laugh — the first time the sound wanted to desperately bubble out of herin his presence— but she knew to do so would be a fatal move; a wound that could not be healed. So she swallowed down the sensation and tilted her head to study the necklace instead.

She hoped that he couldn’t hear how fast her heart was beating in her chest.

When she opened her mouth to speak, Cassian swiftly changed tactic, steering her around so her back was to him. The movement was abrupt and uncontrolled, designed to stop her speaking and laced with something that Nesta thought she detected as panic. 

The firm touch of his hands on her skin made everything hiss, like steam as water hit a hot pan on the stove. And once she had her back to him and the room stopped spinning, everything slowed. Hyper-aware, Nesta felt the movement of air against the arch of her neck; felt the way her body betrayed her and covered her in goosebumps as his calloused fingers brushed her neck. The pleasure at being touched coursed through her and she stiffened, suppressing the shiver that wanted to sweep her away.

She hadn’t been touched intimately in months. Hadn’t been touched tenderly ever and she found she craved for it.

The comprehension made her both sad and angry: a double-edged sword plunged into the gut.

“What do you think—” she started to snap, but she broke off as a light weight nestled on her sternum, a few inches below her clavicle.

For a moment, the stone was cool, but then it pulsed against her skin, as if it were a heart and it had been kicked into life for the first time. The pendant was a colour Nesta had never seen before - not quite gold and not quite silver. Understated but undoubtedly beautiful.

Nesta snapped her gaze up to Cassian as all seven siphons on his ornate armour glowed softly.

He was staring at her with apprehension… and he looked strangely vulnerable, as if he were ready to take a step back. As if he were about to take a hit. 

Despite that, Nesta couldn’t help to stamp out the intimacy of the moment, even as her mind chanted for more. His head was bowed slightly towards her and she was so consumed by his scent that too much derision flooded her voice, “You’re giving me jewellery? I’m touched.”

“Very good,” Cassian snickered. His wary expression was suddenly replaced with determination, the shadows shifting on his dark, untameable features.

“I know you don’t usually wear jewellery,” Cassian said with forced lightness, “but I thought you might make an exception. The stone is made of pyrite. Pyrite is revered in Illyria for its protective properties—it’s very rare. It provides a level of protection over the wearer.”

Nesta fingered the beautiful pendant, the stone which was still warm against her skin. It reminded her of safety: of being curled up by a silent fire with a storm raging outside; of a hot meal settling in a stomach carved out hollow from weeks of barely having enough to survive.

She should accept the necklace and get him to leave, Nesta knew that, but her curiosity had been piqued even as something warned her to remain quiet, “When did you have time to hunt down a rare protective charm?”

A muscle feathered in Cassian’s jaw. Suddenly he was not looking at her again but past her, as if something had captivated his attention on the wall. “A while ago.”

And somehow she knew from those three words exactly what this was: the Solstice gift he had tried to give her.

All the fight bled out of her, because somehow Nesta knew that he had found this for her so she would feel safe. So when she closed the door to her apartment at night with the four locks or walked home well after dark in an inebriated state, that it would offer her protection. That even though she had rejected him and he knew that she was fucking male after male, that no harm would come to her.

At the time she would have been furious at the gift — at the audacity that he thought he should protect her. But that wasn’t it at all. It was because deep down, despite all her sharp words and his confusing actions, he had cared. And whilst post-war Nesta would have been so blinded by rage and numbing grief that she would have been unable to see the gift for what it was… the Nesta here and now - the female who was slowly emerging out of the dark - felt as if dawn was peeking on the horizon.

A lump formed in her throat. Had Cassian dived into the Sidra to retrieve it? When she had been so cruel to him and he so cruel to her? When she had lashed out because he would not listen. Because he had ignored her and flirted with Mor in front of her face as she felt discarded in the corner.

“It will provide you with an added layer of security during our trip,” Cassian told her. 

Even now, Nesta did not want to discuss what they had been. What they could have been. So she said, “You think I need it today?”

“I think that I don’t trust Illyrian males, especially Illyrian males from Ironcrest. I think that you are stronger and more powerful than any of them, but I would rather die than have something happen to you on the off-chance that they got closer than you’d like or if they teamed up on you.” His words were a low vigorous rumble that shook her bones.

Then he hesitated. “And Illyrian males give a piece of jewellery to females they are promised to — it’s a symbolic gesture. For the sake of today’s pretence, it would be good if you wore it.”

A long, long silence where Nesta could feel Cassian’s pulse thumping against the skin of his neck. For one true beat, their eyes locked. His eyes were so dark and intense that Nesta couldn’t bare it.

She was thankful when they shifted slightly to stare right past her rather than tunnel far inside of her.

“It’s beautiful,” she conceded, unable to voice what she wanted to say. There was too much churning around in her mind, so she stared down at the teardrop pendant that glimmered against her pale skin.

“Good,” Cassian said, moving away from her with such abruptness it was almost military with intent. “Put it on and come downstairs.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I am so sorry for the day's delay in posting this chapter. I was really poorly last week (and I'm still recovering) so I wasn't able to keep on top of my writing in order to bring you a chapter yesterday. That is not only because I found this very difficult to write, but because this is a LONG chapter. 14k words. 
> 
> There was so much to pack in, and as you all know, I am not one to gloss over certain elements, especially not Nessian goodness. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has sent me will-wishes on Tumblr this week and last. You are all lovely people and it's very much appreciated.
> 
> Let me know what you think, as always. And apologies for any typos and inconsistencies—as I said, I've not been well so my brain has not been functioning like it usually does!

** Chapter Twenty-Seven  
Cassian **

Frawley and Lorrian were all ready to go when Nesta came downstairs. Those ever-perceptive eyes—ice blue and brown—fell immediately to Nesta’s chest as she stepped into the hallway. But to Cassian’s relief, the witch remained relatively silent, mounting Caerleon and casting into the sky with her husband close behind her in a glow of emerald without more than a few crisp, comments. 

Nesta flew on Sala. Despite knowing that she had trained on Caerleon enough the previous week to know what to expect, Cassian could not help the fear that wound its way into his mouth as beast and Fae left the ground. He needn’t have worried. Sala’s gait seemed as natural to Nesta as breathing; her legs tucked into the manticore’s flank just before the beast’s wings with a confident, determined grip and her fingers were secure in Sala’s ruff. Cassian had launched himself into the skies straight after her, watching Nesta as if he were a hawk. He knew the magic binding Nesta and Sala would keep Nesta seated despite the battering winds and any notion of gravity, but that didn’t stop him from flying a few feet below her for the first couple of miles, ready to throw himself into a nose dive should she fall. 

But later, when he realised that Nesta was perfectly at home on top of her manticore, Cassian had risen to fly beside her. And when he had winked at her, his broad wings flapping to match her furious pace, the smile she had sent back had been genuine enough for Cassian to know that if he died that day, he would die happy. That he had seen Nesta offer him a true smile without any thought of stifling it, and it was beautiful. 

A few miles from the camp, the four of them landed to leave the manticores in a thicket of pine trees. Cassian watched Nesta bury her face into the manticore’s neck and whisper in the beast’s ear before she wordlessly strode over to him. 

They had decided the night prior that Frawley and Nesta would leave their manticores behind. It was an idea that had been met with great protest by Frawley, but in the end, Cassian and Lorrian had talked her round. They were both of the same opinion; bringing the manticores to the Solstice luncheon would probably push the already hostile Illyrian lords to self-combust. So the manticores would remain on stand-by, out of sight but near enough to the camp to intervene if necessary.

“Ready to go for a ride, sweetheart?” Cassian teased Nesta as she walked towards him.

Cassian had expected things to be strained between them since he had given Nesta the necklace. There was also the small matter that they would be publicly declaring themselves together today, but Nesta appeared wholly unfazed. If anything, she looked happy, despite the sexual innuendo which usually had her dropping swiftly into irritation. Her cheeks were stung pink from the cold air, giving her a healthy glow, and her eyes were impossibly bright in a way that made his own heart ache.

Her lack of reaction didn’t help Cassian to _stop_ thinking about Nesta in a sexual capacity. And the thought of Nesta actually riding him… He had dreamt of her so many times now that their imagined actions had become a well-rehearsed dance. He knew what it felt like for her to straddle his hips. Knew what she sounded like when she sighed and sank down onto the length of him, his lips attacking the column of her neck. Of how he groaned so deeply that everything in him shook. Nesta’s phantom hands always weaved through his hair at the sound, and when she bent to kiss him, she tasted entirely right...

“I suppose I’ll have to make do with you,” Nesta struck back, pulling Cassian out of his salacious thoughts with a jolt. Her tone was playful, but there was an underlying edge of disappointment that told him she was fed up of being carried around. 

Even though it hurt, Cassian understood. He wouldn’t want to be carted around the skies when he could fly through them. So, he only cast a new protective shield over them, knowing that Nesta would spit blue murder if he ruined her hair. He also knew that he should look presentable for once, rather than turning up in blood-stained armour and hair so wind-snarled that running a brush through it threatened to break it more than it promised to ease out the knots. 

Cassian might be the Night Court’s general, but that didn’t mean it was beneath him to look presentable.

For a long, the two of them travelled in silence. To his surprise, Nesta had curled her fingers into his chest, an action which had been lost long ago with her fear of flying. The action was absent-minded enough to tell him her thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed, when he glanced down at her she looked far away. 

Cassian was just about to ask if she was all right, when Nesta asked, “Sala will be ok in the forest?”

He bit back a smile at her concern. Somehow, he knew that would upset her.

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Cassian replied sincerely. “She’s an alpha predator and she’s with Caer.”

Darting another glance downwards, he found Nesta chewing on her lip. The action made her appear even more beautiful. Cassian didn’t know how Nesta always managed to look so arresting. Sometimes, he thought it was because he saw her through rose-tinted lenses, but then someone else would make a comment, like Lorrian yesterday, and he’d know it wasn’t in his imagination at all.

“If you need her, she’ll come,” Cassian assured Nesta, locking his eyes with hers so his words held weight. “Sala is bound to your magic, just will her presence and she will find you.”

Slowly, Nesta nodded. When she unclenched her teeth, her bottom lip was swollen and flushed. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her when they weren’t dying. Whether she’d let him. Sometimes—only rarely—Cassian thought she might. Like earlier, when he had given her the necklace and she had twisted to look up at him. It would have been so easy to cup her cheek and bow his head that little bit further. And for a second, he’d thought that was what she had wanted. Her eyes had darted to his lips, but rather than satisfaction Cassian had felt a stab of mutual fear. Because they both knew that if Cassian was to give in to temptation—if she let him and wanted it—they would not stop until their skin was bare and their bodies were moulded into the other. 

Cassian fortified his ring of fire at the thought. Made it even tighter and more formidable. Blocked out the thought of Nesta’s endless skin and her unforgiving curves. Since the kerits attack on Windhaven, Cassian felt more of Nesta down that shared tether. It was still constricted, but it was enough to get hits of emotion more frequently than before. And even though Cassian was desperate to, he hadn’t dared to reach out and touch that twisted rope again.

It hurt to deny himself the pleasure of brushing against it. The urge pulsed beneath his skin, whispering her name over and over: _Nesta, Nesta, Nesta._

“You’re ok with today’s plan?” Cassian asked Nesta, because he needed to say something that didn’t make him think about how they would be sharing a bed later. How he would be so consumed by her scent it would be hard to breathe, let alone think. Needed to focus on the fact that today could be very dangerous and that he was willingly carrying her right into it.

It would not be like last time when she had been suffering from nightmares. This time she would be lucid. He would not be able to arch a protective wing over her and ghost his body alongside hers. It was going to be necessary torture and he had no idea whether she had yet pieced together that they would not have separate sleeping arrangements. Nesta was usually so quick to put two and two together, but she had not truly snapped or refused point blank to be anywhere near him, which made him suspect that it hadn’t yet clicked.

“Aside from being promised to you?” Nesta asked, a slight crease appearing between her brows.

The words were not vicious, but Cassian still had to snicker away the hurt. “Aside from that.”

“Yes, I’m ok with the plan,” she replied. She craned her neck up to look at him. “You’re worried.”

Cassian could not help but press his lips tightly together. He thought about denying it, but somehow he knew that she could read his expression too adeptly.

“I’m always wary before I meet with the war-lords. I’m even more wary when a meeting has been brought forward,” Cassian admitted. He cast his gaze forward to the skies, to Lorrian and Frawley who were flying ahead of them. Lorrian’s natural gait had always been faster than Cassian’s. Whilst Cassian’s wings were bigger, Lorrian’s build was made for speed. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” he admitted. “Marsh is a notoriously harsh war-lord, but he’s been unwell in recent years. Usually, a war-lord would not think twice to rid himself of a son who would pose as a threat. Kallon has openly claimed to have Enalius’s sword and his father has not made a single move against him, even though it threatens his position.”

“You think Marsh would kill his own son?”

Cassian snorted. “It has happened before. That, or a son would be cast out of the camp and stripped of his entitlement.”

Nesta frowned. “So, what you are saying is that you do not think that Marsh has long left to live and he is allowing Kallon to rule in his stead?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I think,” Cassian replied seriously, not at all surprised at Nesta’s intelligence. “And that means Kallon could soon be in a position of great power and influence, especially if he claims to have been chosen by Enalius to unite the Illyrians.”

They flew in silence for a few minutes. Cassian could almost hear the cogs turning in Nesta’s mind, as she digested the information he had just given her. But when she finally spoke, it was not about Kallon or the rising discontent. “I won’t be subservient.”

Cassian looked down at her in surprise. Did she mean today? “I don’t want you to be,” he said carefully. Honestly. 

“Aren’t you going to remind me of the Illyrian customs and how I shouldn’t behave considering I’m a female?” Nesta asked stiffly.

Cassian frowned. Maybe things weren’t fine between them, after all. There was a sudden edge to her voice that he had heard when he had first shown her the necklace. That sharp, brittle parry that had almost seemed like she was purposefully attempting to put distance between them. He had felt her panic. She hadn’t been able to stifle that emotion before it flew down their tether. Nor had she been able to disguise the beating of her heart, which pattered at such a rate that it had melded with his own terrified rhythm.

Nesta knew what the necklace was, Cassian was sure of it. Knew by now that he had dived back into the Sidra to retrieve the gift she had refused, just as she had rejected him. 

Now Cassian was no longer clouded by the fierce grip of rejection, he could not entirely blame Nesta for turning him away on Solstice. She had spent the evening sitting as far away from the fire as possible during a visit against her will. And not only had she had to fight battle trauma, but she had been forced to endure how they were all moving on without her. It was what Nesta had insisted upon, but Cassian was not stupid enough to think that it hadn’t hurt, especially when he had opened Mor’s gift and laughed along with everyone, pretending everything was fine when it most certainly was not. When it had felt as if someone had already thrust a hand into his chest and thrown out his bloody, bleeding heart for everyone to see. 

To see the world through a pair of dusky blue eyes rather than hazel had everything tilted sideways, but it was necessary, he knew that now.

“No,” Cassian replied shortly, and meant it. Nesta was wild and he hungered for it. To see her chained and timid went against every fibre of his being. 

“Is that not what is expected of the females here?” Nesta questioned, her voice that little more pointed. 

Cassian frowned again. “It is, but I like you just the way you are,” he confessed slowly. “It is not what I would ever expect of you.”

Then, he barked a laugh, missing the sudden change in Nesta’s expression. “And you’ll find your defiance is in good company. You and Frawley are going to make a formidable pair.”

A soft snort. It was as close to a laugh as Cassian was going to get, but he would settle for it, even if it was nothing on the joy that had hit him square in the stomach a few weeks prior. He had been eating breakfast in the kitchen when he had felt it: pure, radiating laughter that had somehow ghosted into his ears and wound itself around his most vital organs. He had been out of his seat and in the skies before he had a moment to catch himself, following that tether between them that was more defined than ever before. But the cold, bracing air had done him good, and Cassian had turned sharply around, suddenly understanding that it was not his moment to share. That it was something Nesta needed to experience independently from him.

So, Cassian had waited at the bungalow for Nesta to return, every second a new form of torture. And from the moment she stepped through the front door, he had known they had reached a turning point. There was a lightness to her features that he had not seen before. As if the laughter had broken through that expressionless mask and rendered her new. 

Cassian had expected to have to wait for a glowing retelling from Mas the day after, but Nesta had told him herself, a ghost of a smile on her lips as he made her breakfast and a mug of chai, listening to her talk and talk and talk.

He would have sold his soul in that moment. Would have done anything for her. But he had only sat opposite with a cup of steaming coffee and watched her eat as if she hadn’t for days. And when he had asked if she wanted to come with him to oversee his camp duties, she had nodded without hesitation, telling him she had a few hours before she was due to show Feyre around the camps with Mas.

“I should warn you that they’ll be interested in you,” Cassian told Nesta after a moment. 

Nesta’s body turned stiff in his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Word has spread amongst the camps about what you did,” Cassian explained.

Mas had encouraged the widows to do as much. The monthly market set deep in the mist-shrouded valley of Empyr, was the perfect opportunity for those that could fly to spread word, just as Kallon’s recruits spread vicious discourse about the Night Court. The valley was flanked by lush forest green and cascading waterfalls, and Illyrians flew from all over the mountains to stock up on essentials, from grains and spices, to weaponry and healing medicines. It was also the location of the Illyrian festival Kharon, where once a year, Illyrians congregated to sail souls to rest down the River Styx. 

Cassian couldn’t wait to take Nesta there. Was waiting for the perfect moment. 

“Feyre was there, too,” Nesta reminded him, but Cassian only shook his head.

“You brought Mas back to life. A lowly widow in the eyes of the average Illyrian. You gave someone worth who was deemed as having none, Nesta. You sparked an oppressed female to lead others and finally stand up against cultural traditions that have been engrained for centuries—”

“But the males don’t see it that way?” Nesta guessed, cutting him off. Her expression did not give any indication that his praise had either pleased or irritated her.

Cassian tilted his head in a shrug, but he did not stop staring into her eyes—into the smoky blue that mesmerised him even now. “Should the dissent continue to rise, we might be forced to invoke a referendum about whether Illyria should become an independent nation,” Cassian explained. “Females have the right to vote. Rhys instated the law many years ago, much to the chagrin of the Illyrian males. I think that’s why Kallon has been targeting the females who lost their husbands and sons in the war—in the hope that their support would swing the cause in his favour.”

“But if he is behind the orchestrated attacks, then we could stop a divided nation?” Nesta asked, finishing his strain of thought.

Cassian’s smile was grim. “Exactly.”

“You think he did it?”

Cassian shrugged. “I keep thinking about those bastards who have disappeared. I would not be surprised if their allegiance had been bought by the rebellion. I’m sure they have been promised a station above the lowest ranking foot soldier. You heard Devlon, they are all exceptional in the skies, but they aren’t recognised for their talents. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“What would happen if you captured them?” Nesta asked quietly.

Cassian looked into the distance—at the pine-capped mountains and the craggy mountain stone. He didn’t want to think about what would befall those males. He knew them. They were good soldiers with no sense of self-worth. 

Nesta touched Cassian’s shoulder. “Maybe it won’t come to that,” she said.

“Maybe,” Cassian replied, but he knew he didn’t sound convinced.

* * *

Lord Marsh’s residence was a too-large stone building set deep into the forested mountain ledge that overhung the rest of the mountain pass. Flags bearing the Ironcrest insignia—a crested hawk eagle with its wings spread wide—rippled in the breeze, and Fae males armed with spears flanked the huge double-doors, which were made of heavy pine and punctured with black iron studs and heavy handles in the shape of Illyrian wings. The guards iron helmets were plumed with pointed black feathers tipped with white, just like the hawk that had given Ironcrest the latter part of its name. 

Carefully, Cassian touched down onto the stone a careful distance from both the entrance and Lorrian and Frawley. He did not give Nesta the opportunity to step away. Instead, he tightened the arm that was still wound around her waist and curled a wing around them like a shield. 

Already he felt territorial. Already he did not want to let her go.

“You stay with me tonight.”

Nesta’s head whipped up at the dead seriousness of his tone. His words were not up for debate but to his surprise, she did not hiss ‘no’ and he did not feel that silver power push against her skin. Cassian suspected that Nesta’s nerves had started to fray at the prospect of being somewhere that was not the bungalow or Lorrian and Frawley’s cottage. 

He touched her hand to bring her back. Nesta stared down at the fingers that clasped hers as if she did not understand how they had got there, before she tightened her grip and turned to face him. As she met his gaze, that smoky blue latched onto him and he felt as if he was a predator who had crawled into the palm of her hand and rolled over in surrender.

“If you need to get my attention when we are inside then send me a subtle signal,” Cassian told Nesta in a quiet voice. Already there would be too many prying eyes and ears. He could already feel Fae watching him from the crown glass windows, their faces distorted by both the plain whorled glass and the stained colours of the insignia set into their middle.

Nesta frowned. “How—”

Cassian pressed his fingers gently against Nesta’s stomach. He felt the wings of her ribs and the muscles of her core. “Here,” he said softly, his heart battering against his chest. “Like you did the other day at Kanaman.”

This close up Cassian could taste the sweetness of Nesta’s breath. Could see every single one of her eyelashes and the black-blue kohl that rimmed the upper lids. Nesta was not usually one for enhancing the features she already had. She did not need to. Staring at Nesta as a human had been enough for Cassian’s breath to catch in his throat, but as Fae… she was devastating. And whilst Cassian preferred Nesta windswept in leathers and a simple braid, he could not deny that when he had found her that morning to give her the necklace, his knees had gone weak. 

Yet, there was something about Nesta being dressed up which made Cassian feel as if he were at a distance from her. As if the formal garments and the tight, intricate arrangement of her braid slammed a partition between them, highlighting how he was only a lowly bastard and she was too good for him. It was why he had often kept his distance before, too fearful to speak with her in front of his friends in case she were to shoot him down publicly. And the truth of it was that Nesta made him feel like he was young again. He had played games without realising it. Ignoring her to feign indifference, hoping to hide just how affected he was by her mere presence in a room. How scared he was to let his friends see just how much his wild and vulnerable heart had been flung out before this bewitching female for the first time in centuries. Because Nesta was not like anyone else he had ever met. He had never felt like this. Not just an undeniable pull of attraction, but something deeper than lust or fancy. Something more.

It was only when Cassian spied the pyrite laying below her collarbone did he relax a little.Perhaps it was too simple for someone as arresting as Nesta, but she hadn’t rejected it. Had let him put it on her and she had not taken it off, not even when she had realised what it was. How it highlighted that painful memory that was strung between them.

She had called the necklace beautiful. Had meant it.

“What—” Nesta started, but she broke off suddenly, a flicker of recognition dawning on her face. Absent-mindedly her fingers closed around the pyrite, as if touching it allowed her to understand—to tap into his mind and read his thoughts.

For a moment, they stared at one another. Both of their hearts thumping even as their expressions remained impassive. If not for the slight stain on Nesta’s cheeks Cassian would not have known she was affected at all.

It amused him that she had thought she had gotten away with sending an emotion back without him noticing. It was the first he had felt something gentle from her, rather than a blast of emotion. And whilst the sensation had still been stifled down that constricted tether, it had touched him in a way he could not explain. That she had cared enough to soothe his torment.

In that moment, Cassian had felt wholly connected to her, but Nesta hadn't even glanced his way. 

Outside of their cocoon, Cassian heard approaching voices and the clink of armour. Even still, he found himself hesitating, wanting a private moment with Nesta for a little longer before they were thrown to the vultures. 

So, Cassian surprised her, raising her knuckles to his lips. Her skin tasted so intoxicating the primal part of him internally growled, but he only looked at her with dark eyes as he slowly retracted his wing — at the smoky silver that slid behind her irises, and unable to help it, breathed softly, “ _Pulchra_.”

His lips quirked against her skin when her breath hitched. Then, slowly, he dropped her hand and offered her his arm with a smile that for once he did not have to catch and shape into something else. “After you, _amore_ ,” he said.

Nesta studied him for a moment. He watched her eyes slide past him to the stone building—to the window and the faces that he knew were staring, prying and scheming. Saw the understanding dawn on Nesta’s face that told him she had believed the kiss for show, when really it had been nothing but a perfect excuse.

And then she took his arm. 

* * *

Warriors on duty armed only in fighting leathers and what Cassian suspected was a number of well-hidden knives led them to the drawing room. Stone walls lit by bobbing faelights cast dark, long shadows in the hallways and onto the faded rugs. As they turned a corner, female servants came into view laden with silver plates piled high with food. In the near distance, a wide doorframe gleamed, light spilling into the corridor and with it, the rumble of forced conversation and the clink of glasses.

One step into the bright room had Cassian on high alert and scanning for every possible exit point. As usual, the Solstice Luncheon did nothing to bring the Illyrians together. Instead, the clans remained steadfast in their own groups of lords and ladies, save for the odd stiff conversation between camps with long-formed alliances. Cassian spied Lord Condor from Forktail speaking stiffly with Devlon, and Cassian immediately thought of Lorrian. How would he fare coming face-to-face with his younger brother today? Notoriously they did not get on. Rumour had it that Lord Icor Condor had not been happy that Lorrian had been promoted from outcast to Colonel. Cassian had received a hate letter for it, not that he cared. Everyone knew Lorrian was the best equipped Illyrian to get their warriors back to a high-level of skill in the skies.

It did not take Cassian long to locate Ironcrest’s war-lord. He was sitting at a large pine table laden with Illyrian cuisine in front of the right-hand bay window. In front of him, a large silver goblet was full to the brim with red wine, as well as a plate piled high with untouched food. 

Lord Anguis Marsh had always been a broad shouldered male who was unusually well-kept for a warrior. His dark hair was slicked back to feather at the nape of his neck, and he sported a hooked, crooked nose and an ugly scar which effectively splitting through his upper lip. When Marsh had been in good health, he had been known for his alarming speed on the battlefield and the vicious nature with which he gutted his opponents. Now, Cassian could not find that male in front of him. 

Marsh was the eldest of the war-lords—a few millennia old, perhaps—and as Azriel had reported, his health was not what it was. The lord—or prince, as all the top ranking war-lords were referred to (with Enalius being viewed as their God and King)—had not been able to fight in the most recent war, nor had he made a point of sitting in on the War Counsel. Kallon, who was Marsh’s only princeling and son, had been denied a place on the Counsel in his stead, with Cassian arguing that it was not only because Kallon was unseasoned, but because he wasn’t intending to fight against Hybern himself. It had been a decision that Cassian knew had not been taken lightly, and he did not delude himself to think that the repercussions weren’t now stacked against him. 

The prince’s declining health was far worse than when Cassian had last seen Marsh. That much was evident from where he remained seated at the thick pine table rather than standing with the majority of his guests. Although, Cassian mused, he would not put it past any Illyrian war-lord to feel so superior that they remained seated at their house table as if it were a throne. 

Steering Nesta over the table to get the formalities over and done with, Cassian deliberately shortened his strides to match hers. As he did so, he tracked Marsh reaching stiffly for his goblet to take a deep drink. It did little to disguise the unmistakable tremble of his hand. Only the war-lord’s eyes remained the same as Cassian remembered; small, yellow and beady — alert and vigilant in the way that only a true Illyrian warrior was. They slid from Cassian to Nesta, before moving on to Lorrian and Frawley behind them. 

“General.” A deep, drawl laced with the faintest rasp. Not as fierce as it used to be, that was for certain. 

Yet, the sneer that twisted the male’s tan face as they came to a stop a few feet from the table undoubtedly belonged to Marsh. The movement highlighted the scar on Marsh’s lip, the skin crumpling as the split caused it to curl in the wrong way. “I see you brought company, bastard, when usually you do not grace us with your presence at all.”

Cassian did not let a flicker of expression taint his blank canvas. He had sent word of their intended stay well ahead of time, but Cassian knew that Marsh would feign ignorance just for the spite of it. “Yes,” he replied. “As I am sure you are already aware, Colonel Lorrian has been reappointed and is overseeing the armies aerial fleet. Neither of us would miss the Rite counsel.”

It was true, Cassian would not miss the Rite counsel that would take place later that afternoon. It was unusual that it had been moved. Usually it took place mid-January, but seeing that it was Ironcrest who was due to hold the ceremony that year, combining the Solstice luncheon and the Rite counsel made sense. It didn’t stop Cassian from being suspicious. Any deviation from the Illyrian’s deepest traditions always had Cassian’s hackles raised, not because he did not appreciate progress or the ability to adapt, but because it was not the Illyrians usual way, especially when it came from one of the oldest Illyrian war-lords.

Marsh did not acknowledge Cassian’s comment regarding the Rite. Instead, he said maliciously, “I didn’t believe there was an aerial fleet left.”

Cassian did not allow his body to stiffen. Did not allow to show how they affected him, even now. He could beat them all to a pulp if he wanted, Cassian reminded himself. He had more siphons than all of them. More Killing Power. He may be a bastard but he was a worthy warrior and better suited to lead the armies than any one of them.

So, he dropped into a voice that he saved for occasions like this. A voice which promised death and destruction and was not to be disputed. “Colonel Lorrian will oversee the training of your aerial warriors tomorrow morning,” Cassian clipped coldly, as if he had not heard the rebuttal. “And we will see how much of that rings true. I am sure Ironcrest would not have allowed their warriors to sink in standard.”

Another curl of the lip as Marsh sneered. Without looking behind him, Marsh raised his goblet with a shaking hand. A female servant rushed forward with a tall, heavy pitcher of wine. When his goblet was refilled, Marsh did not shift his yellow, beady eyes from Cassian as he lifted the goblet to his lips. His hand shook with enough effort that the contents spilled over the lip and onto his arm.

A snarl unleashed itself from Marsh’s throat, the sound not unlike a whip hitting home. The goblet thunked onto the pine table, wine sloshing over the surface. “Maya, you useless female,” Marsh chastised the female servant, whose eyes had widened with fear. “You jostled me. Get me a napkin at once or I will banish you to the widows camp and be done with you.” 

The hand that was still looped through Cassian’s arm tightened slightly, and Cassian felt the threat of Nesta’s magic push beneath her skin. Training regularly with Nesta had allowed Cassian to become used to the seal of her magic. It was something which had become as naturally as breathing to him since that day at Spearhead, when they had first trained with his siphon. It was almost as if Nesta’s magic had imprinted onto his very being. When it moved, he felt it. When it blazed, he burned without fire. 

As if it were the most natural gesture in the world, Cassian brought a hand to cup Nesta’s where it lay on her arm. It was a reminder to stay calm. Nesta’s job was to scout out the emotions in the room, not set it aflame.

“Father,” a male voice announced.

Cassian turned to see a male standing a few feet from them. Kallon was the imitation of his father when he had been in good health: impossibly dark hair scraped back to the nape of his neck; yellow eyes; a chiselled jaw; and sharp cheekbones. He was handsome in the way that most Fae were, and his skin betrayed his youth; the majority of brown unmarred, save for a vicious looking scar on his arm and half of a missing index finger on his left hand, which left the digit intact only to the knuckle. Kallon did not have Illyrian tattoos yet—had not seen war to earn them—and on the backs of his hands lay no siphons. 

Given the steadfast rule at all gatherings for the war-lord, Cassian was not surprised to see that no sword lay either in a scabbard by Kallon’s side, or strapped down his spine, as was Illyrian custom.

“My son, Kallon,” Marsh announced with the stiff flick of a trembling hand, “who I presume you have met before.”

Cassian did not bow his head. “I don’t believe we have met in a number of years.”

Piercing yellow eyes studied Cassian. “I don’t believe I would have had cause to, considering our General does not visit Ironcrest often, and given that I was not permitted a place on your war counsel.”

An insult already and one that was not entirely true. Cassian had visited Ironcrest a fair few times over the last four months, but Kallon had never been in the training ring or with his father at the same time.

Kallon’s luminescent yellow eyes moved from Cassian’s to the female beside him. They stilled and then, painstakingly slowly, they deliberately raked a path over every inch of Nesta’s body. The movement was purposefully claiming, and Cassian suppressed the growl that came roaring to the forefront as Kallon dared to flex the claws on his wings. “And who is this bewitching female?” he asked.

Nesta had turned preternaturally still, and not one part of her body moved save for her eyes, which slid to the talons at the apex of the princeling’s wings. In fact, Cassian noted, Nesta’s posture had not changed since she had entered the house; her spine stacked tall, her chin slightly raised, those beautiful eyes lined with silver shimmering mercury blue. But there was something in her stillness that made Cassian wonder if Nesta, too, had dissected that Kallon’s good looks had a cold and unreachable quality that hinted at something far sinister. As if he used them as a way of luring in victims, much like sirens tempted sailors to the rocks at sea.

Nesta would have felt distant and otherworldly if she had not been holding his arm. If he could not feel her, ever so slightly, down that bond thanks to her lowered walls.

“This is Lady Nesta Archeron,” Cassian replied, forcing all malice from his voice. 

“Oh, yes,” Kallon mused smoothly, his irises flaring as if they were an extension of his nostrils. No doubt trying to scent whether Cassian had claimed her. “I have heard of you. I can feel your power. I’ve heard others call you a witch, but I have also heard that you have taken a power that is ancient beyond reckoning. Something that is not yours.”

The princeling’s voice had dropped into a purr and a snarl roared inside of Cassian as Kallon closed the distance between them to take Nesta’s hand. His signet ring flashed in the faelight as he placed a slow, deliberate kiss to Nesta’s knuckles—the exact same spot atop Nesta’s ring finger that Cassian had kissed moments earlier.

“Such a touching story,” Kallon continued, his voice unbelievably even as he looked up at her, “about how you defended one another on the battlefield.” His gaze intensified and sharpened on Nesta as he lowered her hand from his mouth. “Rumour has it that your dedication did not last long, but who can blame you for deciding not to settle for a lowly bastard?”

The way in which Kallon straightened was slow and deliberate. He did not let go of Nesta’s hand, his yellow eyes continuing to stare pointedly at the female before him, as if he had been privy to every night she had fucked someone else and Cassian had perched outside on the rooftop. 

Hot and cold washed over Cassian’s body with such ferocity it felt as if he had jumped into both ice and fire. Rage and humiliation battered against his shields, but he did not lower them. Would not allow Nesta or anyone else in the room know how much those words affected him.

But then he felt Nesta’s anger fling itself hard down their tether, the sensation not akin to a blow to the stomach. It pierced through his fire, his heart, and for a moment he felt as if he had been set aflame. He knew she had lowered her shields so she could sense others' emotions in the room, but to be reminded how much she truly felt when she let every barrier fell away was astounding.

Even so, when Nesta spoke, her voice was icy and level beyond reckoning. “Evidently that is not true, otherwise I would not be here.”

She retracted her mist-wrapped hand from Kallon with such care Cassian knew that she was considering smacking him round the face.

A low, sensual laugh that was more fitting for jovial conversation than it was here. “Do not try to convince me that you, a High Fae, has settled for the lowest born faerie? Just how poor was the offering back in Velaris? I hear there was no shortage of males in your bed…”

Cassian had stopped breathing for fear that if he did he would launch towards Kallon and use his fists to beat him bloody and blue. His shield had faltered, the fire sputtering as the words hit home like a spear to the heart.

Nesta did not rise to the bait. She only clipped, “It turns out that the only male I found to be worthy was an Illyrian bastard, so that is no longer relevant.” That chin of Nesta’s rose defiant, and with it, she grew even taller; a vengeful mighty queen looking down on her subjects with pure loathing. “And I may have been Made High Fae against my will, but I am human at heart. I believe you think them to be at the bottom of the chain, so perhaps that will help you sleep easier at night.”

Kallon blinked at Nesta, momentarily stunned. His gaze slid to her fingers, where mist was still seeping from them, curling around Cassian’s bicep. The heat was a welcoming lick rather than hot enough to burn, but the way her fire started to take form, the mist turning into a rope which blazed in coils around her forearm was enough to insinuate otherwise. And there was the fact that Nesta could will it to burn hotter if she liked. Cassian did not doubt that she could incinerate the room with a mere flick of her fingers.

The thought thrilled him. Stacked up the fire inside of his own body, his internal shields answering to hers as his flames licked higher.

Kallon did not step back, although Cassian saw the muscles in his body tense as if to fling himself out of range. He cocked his head to the side, contemplative, as if Nesta were a puzzle he wanted to figure out. And then, he slipped. For a fraction of a second his right hand fell to his hip, where a sword or knife usually hung from his weapon’s belt. But the way his fingers remained there, lingering… it was enough to tell Cassian that he was hiding something. That he was armed, even though he was not supposed to be.

And the knowledge clearly gave him courage, because he stepped towards Nesta, his eyes gleaming—

Nesta snarled, her whip uncoiling itself, the tip lashing out across the clearing with such speed Kallon recoiled. 

“It’s true then,” Kallon said, his eyes bright as he took a step backwards. “Silver flames—”

But his father interjected, as if he had endured enough of his son’s games. “I do not remember inviting two witches and an Incomplete to this luncheon,” Marsh snapped.

“Scared of what we’re capable of?” Frawley asked, speaking up for the first time since they had stepped into the room. Her voice was quiet but chilling, and her ice-blue eye levelled Marsh with such a glare that Cassian found himself tensing. Frawley was not irresponsible enough to start a fight, but she had been known to provoke the war-lords when she saw fit. Usually when they insulted her husband. 

“To think that you would be in the company of two females more powerful than you,” Frawley mused with the deathly sort of calm that Cassian usually harboured for himself during battle. “And that’s not to mention that one of us beheaded the King of Hybern.”

That lip twisted and contorted, but Kallon spoke before his father had the opportunity to do it himself. “I do not think that we need to thank a witch for ending a war where Illyrians were treated as disposable,” Kallon said.

A murmur went through the crowd. But that did not deter Nesta, who levelled Kallon with a gaze which had him stilling as a slow, cruel smile crept across her face. “I’m not a witch,” she vowed. “I’m something much worse.”

True silence. So quiet that Cassian could have heard a pin drop. 

And that was when, without waiting to be dismissed, Cassian chose to steer Nesta away from the war-lord’s table and into the watching crowds.

* * *

Nesta moved beside him as if she were floating, as if gravity did not apply to her. Cassian challenged every stare and every curling lip they passed. When they reached the large windows farther down the room where it was less crowded, he drew them to a halt. 

Begrudgingly, he dropped his arm, but then he felt couldn’t resist the temptation this partnership had granted him, so he dared to raise a hand to touch his fingers to the nape of Nesta’s neck. As well as being self-indulgent, it was also a gesture of intimacy that he thought would make Nesta least uncomfortable. It was a self-indulgent move, something that sung intimacy and was designed to stake a claim. Because he had seen the way in which Kallon had stared at Nesta. The way he had tried to scent for a bond or claim on her. The gleam in Kallon’s eyes had told Cassian he was not wholly convinced about their claim of being partners, enough for him to prod and poke about Cassian’s bastard status and Nesta’s bedding habits. To see what they said and how they behaved. 

And whilst Illyrian males were not overly affectionate with their partners in public, Cassian never intended to take a wife who he did not openly cherish.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked softly. 

To his surprise, Nesta did not flinch. Instead, she turned into his touch, lifting those smoky blue eyes to his as if this impromptu dance they were orchestrating was as natural as breathing. That she hadn’t just been called out on her promiscuous behaviour and her continual rejection of him.

She gave a short nod. “Please.” 

Her expression, Cassian noted, might be carefully blank, but her eyes were readable to him. He had spent four months living with her. Had learnt to dissect every hollowed out stare and every dulled light whenever she was unguarded enough to let him. And whilst Cassian had expected Nesta to wear the mask she so habitually wore, her eyes were open enough for him to know that she was still angry.

Sweeping up four goblets of wine from the closest servant, Cassian tried not to mourn the loss of Nesta’s skin beneath his fingertips. Frawley flicked her hands casually at both Lorrian’s and Nesta’s drinks, turning the wine to juice before either of them had a moment to comment.

“I could do with some wine,” Lorrian confessed to Cassian in a low, bitter tone as Nesta turned to respond to something Frawley had just said. His friend’s face was wholly impassive to the outsider, but Cassian knew Lorrian well enough to catch the slightly mournful look in the Lorrian’s eyes as he glanced down into the depths of his goblet. “I give it five minutes until I have a war-lord upon me demanding for an update on the state of the aerial fleet.” He cast a slow, hard look around the room. It was a look that Cassian had honed himself over centuries of learning how to assert authority. “That being said,” Lorrian continued, “I think that could have gone a lot worse.”

Cassian grunted, the sensation making his chest jolt and his armour clink. “Speak for yourself.”

Lorrian shot Cassian an apologetic look. He watched Cassian take a deep sip from his goblet. At least the wine was good, Cassian thought bitterly, as if the silver lining would smooth over the battering he’d just received.

“If it’s any consolation, my brother has been sneering at me since we set foot in the room,” Lorrian admitted to Cassian, as if he knew what Cassian was thinking. “I’d sell my other arm in a wager that he’ll have strut over here by the end of this damn luncheon to give me hell.”

It was intended to be a joke but Cassian knew how sensitive Lorrian was about his missing limb. And understandably so. Illyrians were cruel at the best of times, but to have already been referred to as an _Incomplete_ was enough to have a traumatised warrior drowning in a sense of underserved dishonour.

Like Cassian, Lorrian was resplendent today in his black scaled armour, and his right arm glowed a soft emerald from where he had used his magic to temporarily reinstate his limb. “At least we took Frawley’s poison blocker before we left,” Lorrian continued to mutter under his breath. “I bet the majority of this room would take great joy in our deaths.”

Another grunt from Cassian—this time one of agreement. He glanced down into his goblet which was now empty. It was not like him to drink so quickly in the company of the lords, but Kallon had Cassian’s anger pushing at his skin, ready to jump to the forefront with one sneering look.

He lifted his eyes to search for another servant, but the same female Marsh had snapped at earlier—Maya—appeared at his left-hand side with a silver pitcher of wine as if she had been watching him. 

The first thing Cassian noticed about the widow was that she had large, almond shaped hazel eyes that were so light, they were almost amber. Her long, ebony hair was fashioned into a double bun at the nape of her neck—a style at odds with her servant status—and on the inside of her wrist, as she lifted her arm to pour him a drink, Cassian spied a tattoo of a sun and moon. 

A twin.

Cassian was so distracted by the ink that he didn’t realise he had moved his goblet away until it was too late. The wine spilled over the rim of the cup and onto the flagstone floor, the red liquid splattering over his leg and onto the back of Nesta’s dress.

Maya’s eyes went as round as saucers and he saw the panic flood her expression in a way that told Cassian she was not treated well in the Marsh residence. Nesta turned around sharply, most presumably, from feeling the females terror with her magic.

“I—I am so sorry, my lord,” Maya stammered. Her eyes, which had been dutifully downcast, had snapped up in alarm to connect with his. “Please, let me clean this up. I—”

But Cassian only shook his head, wordlessly taking the handkerchief Lorrian passed to him and took a deliberate step backwards so Maya was deliberately placed in front of him. “I think you will find that it is me who should be apologising,” Cassian corrected kindly. “I moved my goblet.”

He turned to Nesta. “Are you wet?” he asked, holding out the handkerchief to her before even thinking about drying off his wine-covered hand.

“I’m fine,” Nesta replied, shaking her head. She had not made any movements to draw attention to herself like many other females would have done. It was as if she, too, had deduced that if Marsh was to catch wind of the incident, Maya would be cast out into the cold. “It’s only a little on the bottom of my skirts. It will soon dry.”

Maya’s eyes slowly fell to the floor at Nesta’s words. They widened in horror at the spatters of red that had already seeped into the light fabric.

“I am not wed to this dress,” Nesta assured Maya. Her usually clipped manner had fallen into something softer and more sincere. It was a voice she used with a fair few: Elain, Roksana and Mas. Sometimes him. 

Sometimes.

Cassian pressed his lips together to stop himself from protesting. Because whilst Nesta might claim not be wedded to her dress, _he_ certainly was. The floating material was the colour of dusky cornflower, a shade which made Nesta’s irises so light they shimmered ice blue. The effect was so startling Cassian’s heart had stopped when she’d opened her bedroom door that morning. If he hadn’t been so nervous he would have probably gone to hell with it all and bent his head to press his lips with hers. Instead, he had stared into those mesmerising eyes and, for a moment, forgotten the silver chain that was burning into his fist. 

Avoiding the puddle of wine, Nesta stepped deliberately closer to Cassian, using their bodies to shield the spillage from the war-lord’s table. She touched his arm with her fingertips and looked up at him. “It’s nothing our housekeeper can’t fix. Isn’t that right, _amore_?”

For a moment, Cassian stared at Nesta, unable to process that she had not only spoke a word of Illyrian, but the term of endearment he had used earlier. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something lacing the words that made him, for a stupid second, believe she meant it.

“Our housekeeper is very skilled,” Cassian assured Maya, allowing a rare smile to slip across his expression. “It won’t be an issue.”

But Maya was still pale. Her eyes slid past them, to the war-lord sat at the far end of the room.

“He can’t see you, Maya,” Cassian assured the servant evenly, as he finished wiping the wine away from his arm and sleeve. When he was finished, he wound an arm around Nesta’s waist, intending to pull her closer to his body, but she moved for him, moulding her curves against his hard lines, blocking Marsh completely from view. Jasmine and vanilla washed over him, the scent a relief. He rubbed a thumb over the fabric of her dress in thanks for playing along. For the blessing of having her pressed up against him.

“I can take care of it.” Frawley took a small step forward to close their circle.

She held out her goblet purposefully outwards, as if she were in need of a refill, and Maya tentatively topped up her a drink as Frawley subtly flicked her fingers. The puddle of wine and the stain on Nesta’s dress vanished.

Again, Maya’s eyes widened, but she was clever enough not to make any kind of movement to attract attention.

“Th-Thank you, my lord. My ladies,” Maya said gratefully, the clear relief in her voice enough to make Cassian angry. When would the injustices inflicted on Illyrians by Illyrians stop? Cassian had no doubt Maya had been mistreated, despite the fact that her twin status must provide her with a certain amount of protection. Illyrians were a superstitious race and would not risk the wrath of the Gods for casting a twin out into the cold. 

In fact, Cassian was surprised that Marsh dared to keep her as a servant at all. Usually twins were the only low-born Illyrians that were established into civil society. And they were _always_ low-born and _always_ unbelievably rare. More often than not they were the product of lords unable to keep their cocks in their pants outside of their marriage bed. 

Holding back a grimace, Cassian made himself nod at Maya as she bobbed a perfect curtsey to each of them, her golden eyes downcast and submissive, before she took leave. 

Curiously, Cassian cocked his head at the widow as she quickly disappeared into the crowds, no doubt to find solace in the kitchens for a moments reprieve.

“Do you know who that was?”

Lorrian’s voice brought Cassian out of his thoughts, and he dragged his eyes away from Maya’s retreating figure to look at his friend. He continued to slowly rub his thumb over Nesta’s ribcage, the curve of her bone beneath the his skin a comfort, somehow.

“No,” he admitted to Lorrian, because he didn’t.

“That’s the widow of Halias Marsh.”

Cassian caught the eyebrows that wanted to disappear into his hairline just in time. “Marsh’s younger brother?”

Halias had not been alive in Cassian’s lifetime, but he knew that he had been a cruel male who had made Anguis Marsh look positively sweet in comparison. Whilst Anguis was known for his sharp, cunning intellect, Halias had been made of a brute strength which had led to an arrogance and dominance both inside and outside the sparring ring. It had been no secret that the brothers had an ongoing rivalry, with Halias believing he was best suited to the role of prince. When Halias had died in a fire, there had been rumours that Marsh had orchestrated his brother’s death, but those sorts of whisperings weren’t uncommon amongst the Illyrian camps, where everyone was out for glory at the expense of others. 

“Yes,” Lorrian confirmed in a low voice. 

“What happened to her twin?” Cassian asked with a frown.

As Cassian and Azriel’s self-appointed guardian, Rhys’s mother had done her best to teach them the history of the Illyrian camps and the war-lords family trees. They had been lessons which Cassian had found inanely dull at the time, usually because he had been exhausted from a rigorous day of training. But he did remember learning that the Ironcrest brothers had secured twins for brides. He also recalled that it had caused uproar amongst the clans at the time. Twins were rare in Prythian and a symbol of fertility, power and good luck. As was usual for twins, they weren’t of high status, but had been plucked from the mud and inserted into elevated society from birth—reared for the two princelings for when they came of age. 

The tattoo Cassian had spied on Maya’s wrist was a part of Illyrian culture. When twins were born, they were marked with the tattoo of a sun and moon: separate yet integral to one another, forever entwined. They were said to be a gift from the Gods: fertile and harbouring power beyond reckoning which would be passed down to their offspring. Their wings were cut at birth. Twins were too precious to risk flying away when they could produce offspring with hearty Killing Power.

“Her twin died in the fire with Halias. I believe she was called Lyanne.”

It was Frawley who had spoken and Cassian looked at her with a frown on his face. “With her twin’s husband?”

“It was quite the scandal at the time,” Frawley said in low tones. “Her twin sister was married to Marsh but sleeping with his brother. I’m surprised you have not heard of it before.”

“Marsh loved his first wife.” It was Nesta who had spoken, and Cassian instinctively tightened his arm around her. “I felt his pain when he looked at Maya. It ran deep, as if he could not bare to look at her.”

That would explain why Marsh had not taken Maya as his wife, Cassian thought. To be wed to a replica but know that they were not the Fae you loved… The heartache would be too much, especially if the female you had given your heart to had bedded his brother, and whilst Marsh was cold beyond reckoning, it was interesting to know there was a side of him that was warm-blooded.

“I bet there’s a reason she’s not in the widows camp,” Lorrian said quietly, and Cassian’s eyes snapped to his friends so quickly his neck cricked.

His neck _burned_ but he was too busy processing what Lorrian was saying. To think that Marsh had kept his wife’s sister in his residence so she could warm his bed when he willed it… the hairs on his arm stood up and something inside of him recoiled, even as he knew that it was incredibly likely. It would explain how well-kept Maya was. How, like Lorrian had said, she had not been turned out into the widows camp and into the cold.

“How long have you known that?” Cassian demanded quietly.

Beside him, Nesta had turned rigid. He didn’t have to look at her to know her skin had turned pale. And despite their constricted bond he felt an unfathomable icy rage force its way down the tether of twisted rope to meet his own.

He did not look at Nesta as he sent an emotion to soothe. A heat to lick against their anger until it had thawed.

He dragged his thumb across her rib cage in a slow, deliberate motion. He felt her let out a long, measure breath.

“I don’t _know it_ ,” Lorrian corrected Cassian smoothly, as if he were discussing the weather, not wanting to raise his voice so others could hear. His eyes burned when they connected wth Cassian’s. “But it would be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it?”  
  


* * *

  
By the time Cassian and Lorrian headed into the Rite meeting, Cassian wanted to leave Ironcrest so fiercely that he had almost refused to leave Nesta behind. As usual, as the lords consumed more wine throughout the luncheon, they seemed to overcome their disdain at approaching rival clans. It result in the pursuit of a kind of hostile, verbal swordplay that reaffirmed why no-one had been permitted to enter the residence with a weapon. 

Not, Cassian thought grimly, that it would stop any of them from magicking one with their siphons anyway.

Icor Condor—Lorrian’s brother—had been the first to stride over to them and interrupt their conversation to publicly sneer at his sibling

Despite being the eldest of the two, Lorrian had lost his right as princeling heir when he had left the camp for Frawley’s heart. When their late father had died, his brother Icor had inherited the status of war-lord, much to his pleasure and Lorrian’s disgust.

Icor was Lorrian’s sole sibling, and at a first glance, the two of them were almost identical in looks. It was only on closer inspection that one noticed the unrelenting hardness to Icor’s dark features—something that was due to the constant state of stark displeasure that hung across his expression. He was also slightly broader in build, the twisted cords of his muscles pushing against what Cassian suspected was too-small armour, and whilst Icor’s eyes were technically hazel, the majority of the time they were a light, unnerving jade. 

To the untrained eye, it was Icor who appeared more formidable. But outcast or no outcast, Lorrian was the finest cut of Forktail princeling, made for the skies in a way his brother was not. And whilst Icor was undeniably an exceptional warrior—his primary skill was with the spear—Forktail’s ancestry boasted formidable warriors from the skies, and Icor had been loath to forget it.

To his credit, Lorrian had appeared completely unaffected as his brother barrelled insult after insult his way, but when Frawley’s ice eye had glowed brightly with threat, Icor had taken sudden leave, claiming that he couldn’t stand to breathe the air of someone who was not only Incomplete but a defector of his race, as well. 

Nesta had dug her fingers so hard into Cassian’s armour at that point that Cassian had thought her fire might beat Frawley’s own magic to throwing itself across the room and hitting Icor square in the chest. 

Now, Lorrian and Cassian followed the rest of the war-lords as they made their way to the war-room, which was situated in the right-hand wing of the residence.

They had barely had time to say goodbye as Frawley and Nesta were ushered into the parlour with the war-lords and Rite representatives partners. Frawley’s eyes had gleamed as she and Nesta floated from the room, and Cassian knew that the witch hoped to wheedle out some information from the females whilst their husbands weren’t by their sides.

The issue of oppressing others, Frawley had said the evening prior, when they were hashing out their plans, was that oppressors had a tendency to become over-confident and over-trusting in their tyranny; so sure of their unwavering power over others that their mouths became loose. And if the females did prefer to keep quiet due to fear of being found out by their husbands, Nesta would sense it. 

It was, Frawley had insisted, a win-win situation, and Cassian would have been inclined to agree, if the Illyrians didn't harbour such a fear of outsiders, especially those that were not only powerful but looked terrifying, as well. 

Lorrian, Cassian had noticed, hadn’t pointed that out to his wife. Nor had he reminded her that her independently moving eyes had a tendency to put Fae on edge rather than at ease.

Which, Cassian thought with a near huff of laughter, probably made Nesta the most approachable out of the two of them.

That knowledge grew inside of his mind until he wanted to howl, and he clamped his lips tightly together to stop a sound from escaping. 

He supposed it was a good sign that he could still find humour in things, especially when he had a looming sense of dread that everything was about to go southward.

“She will be fine,” Lorrian told Cassian, frowning at his friend as they walked through the dimly lit corridors which were darkened all the more by heavy tapestries. “Nesta is more than capable of looking after herself, and she has Frawley with her. They are probably safest with the females, anyway.”

Cassian didn’t want to explain the reason for his expression, so he just nodded. It wasn’t as if he liked being separated from Nesta. The more time they spent together, the more he dreaded their time apart. It was a constant sort of worry that gnawed at his insides and made him feel as if someone had ripped a limb clean off his body. And since Nesta had nearly died healing Mas, Cassian had started to experience incandescent, sporadic flashes of panic that Nesta was dying and he did not know. That she was suffering and he was not there to ease it, even as reason told him that anything that urgent would fly down their shared tether.

“That’s what it was like with Frawley,” Lorrian added to Cassian, his hazel eyes discerning as they followed the hulking, retreating backs of the other war-lords.

“What it was like?” Cassian repeated, feigning confusion. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to partake in the discussion.

But Lorrian only dipped his chin. “It’s when I knew we would be  _chroí_ . After we were joined, it felt like the greatest relief, as if a spool of yarn had been pulled tight between us but now it could just… exist. Relax a little.”

Cassian thought of the constricted tether between them and the way his light was desperate to push against the inner walls, until that rope had widened into a tunnel clear of brambles.

Not once had Cassian spoken with Lorrian or Frawley about Nesta. About how he was in so deep that sometimes he thought that if she were ever to reject him again he wouldn't be able to climb out of the pit he had fallen into. Both of his friends were sharp enough to have dissected his feelings, he wasn’t naive enough to pretend otherwise. He had never introduced them to a female before, had never allowed them to get to know someone so intimately that was clearly not a friend. 

Not that Cassian knew what he and Nesta were. Wouldn’t dare to ask for fear of ruining it all.

And his friends had not pressed him for more information or, to his knowledge, asked Nesta about the two of them. The latter of which he was immensely thankful for.

Yet, that didn’t mean that Cassian hadn’t felt Frawley’s ice blue eye swivel carefully between the two of them, or Lorrian’s knowing smile as Nesta joined in with his friend to torment him. 

In fact, the only thing Frawley had commented on was her fondness for Nesta. 

“I hope we get to keep her, Cassian,” the witch had said sternly when he had arrived at the cottage earlier that week, as if, ironically, the decision was up to him. Then, without commenting on how premature his arrival was, Frawley had waved impatiently to the back door, “She’s training with Lorrian.”

Having been thoroughly dismissed, Cassian had headed into the backyard to find the paddock to the left of the barn had been cleared of its usual horses. Instead, Nesta stood at a shooting line that Cassian suspected had been made by Lorrian dragging the toe of his boot through the mud. At the far end of the ring —20 metres or so away—stood an archery target. 

His friend had not turned as Cassian drew up beside him. Instead, they had both watched in silence as Nesta pulled back the bow string with a strength that no other Illyrian female possessed before releasing it. 

Together, they watched an arrow fly across the clearing and hit clean into the outer yellow ring of the target. Lorrian had still not looked at Cassian, had only kept his arms crossed firmly over his chest as they watched Nesta stride over to the target on her long legs to collect her arrows.

“You’ve met your match,” was all Lorrian eventually said, shaking his head in disbelief, before he went over to correct Nesta on her stance. 

Now, Cassian glanced sideways at his friend. Lorrian’s eyes were full of a shared understanding that Cassian could not bear. So he looked away, and before he could stop the words, he admitted tightly—quietly, “It’s going to be the death of me.” 

Ahead of them, the heavy double doors of the war-room came looming into view, and with it, another layer of dread. Cassian flared his siphons, breaking the sound bubble Lorrian had encased them in, and stalked into the room. 

Marsh was already seated at the long, wooden table. He had left the drawing room well before the rest of them, no doubt to hide the extent of his illness, but Cassian could almost taste death on the war-lord. 

The others could, too. Those sharp, beady eyes never missed a thing. And if they had not gleaned it for themselves, the way in which Kallon seated himself beside his father was enough of an indication of who was truly intending to run the meeting.

There was a growing expectancy in the air. The deafening kind that was almost like a ringing silence, even as chairs scraped against flagstones and war-lords muttered to their Rite representatives, who took a seat beside them. 

It did not escape Cassian that one of Ragar’s friends was seated beside Devlon. That beside the other war-lords, Cassian recognised lordlings who had been reported to have met with Kallon all those weeks ago.

That sense of apprehension intensified, but Cassian settled his wings over his chair and waited for the first war-lord to break the silence. Even as his mind worked at a hundred miles per minute, trying to piece together what he was clearly not seeing.

Unsurprisingly, it was Icor who finally broke the silence. “A representative can’t take place in the Rite,” Lorrian’s brother sneered from where he sat opposite Cassian and Lorrian, his lip already curled as he narrowed his eyes at Kallon.

The princeling did not rise to the barb. He only settled back into his chair with an unrivalled arrogance and smoothness that made Cassian want to smack him in the face. It was an action that almost reminded Cassian of Rhys when he was playing wicked, but there was something impossibly cold and threatening beneath the movement which set Kallon apart from his brother. It made Cassian want to sit up straighter, but he did not allow himself to do it. To let others know that Kallon held his attention so fiercely.

“I am aware of that, Icor,” Kallon replied, once he had taken his time getting comfortable. “I do not intend to partake in the Rite this year.”

Not a murmur ran down the table, but the air became tight and pregnant again. Expectant. It was almost unheard of for a princeling not to partake in the Rite past a certain age, and Kallon was near twenty-five.

It meant that he would not earn siphons of his own for another year. 

It was an unusual move, especially given that Kallon was trying to stake authority amongst the Illyrians. Siphons were the quickest way to earn respect amongst Cassian’s race. It was why they begrudgingly accepted Cassian. 

Kallon’s birth as a princeling meant that he was born with a natural amount of Killing Power that superseded low-born foot soldiers. Azriel’s information had detailed that Kallon usually trained with three siphons in the sparring ring. That although he was green, he was better than most with the Illyrian saber. That since he had been training with the sword he claimed to be Enalius’s, he had taken to using a fourth siphon to contain the Killing Power that seemed to still be growing within him.

That, in itself, was a worry. Cassian’s Killing Power had reached its maturity at the age of twenty-five, training with seven borrowed siphons in the sparring ring until he finally earned his jewels after the Blood Rite. 

The Siphon Master had not hesitated in giving Cassian siphons the colour of blood.

_For the blood glory you will earn in battle, ratnik,_ the Siphon Master had said at the Rite ceremony, as he placed red siphons atop Cassian’s hands, on his knee caps, his upper arms… And across his heart, a flawless star ruby. Even now, Cassian remembered how the jewel had beat a deep, dark red that took on a blueish hue, as if it were kicking into life for the first time. Cassian remembered the gratification that had flickered over the Siphon Master’s face as the ruby did not shatter but became an additional heart, pulsing gently in the spring light.

“Shall we begin, Father?”

This time, every war-lord bristled as Kallon spoke. Somehow, the air became even thicker. A princeling did not order a prince. Yet, Marsh only raked his shrewd eyes over every single male in challenge, before he waved a trembling hand at his son, commanding him to start.

Kallon stood with a confidence that superseded his age; as if he were a messenger sent by the Gods and had the intention of delivering a fucking sermon. Cassian’s stomach dropped leaden to his toes at the same time that his blood began to boil beneath his skin. 

Beside him, Lorrian stiffened, as if he too knew that they had been foiled, even though neither of them had yet learnt why.

“Many of you are probably wondering why my father and I have called this meeting early,” Kallon started. The princeling stood tall, his feet slightly apart, his shoulders squared, his wings held up high… A warrior’s stance. But there was something infuriatingly relaxed about his posture, as if commanding an audience was all completely natural to him. 

“Tradition states that the first Rite counsel is not held until the new year, but given that Ironcrest is hosting the ceremony this year, we thought it made sense to arrange for this meeting to coincide with the Solstice luncheon.”

There was a pause in which Kallon looked around the room. His voice was too cordial for an Illyrian, especially a princeling, and if it were not for that unfathomable chill to his voice—a carved out emptiness—Cassian would have been willing to bet that he would have been sneered back into his seat. And of course, there was arrogance, too. An entitlement that came with those born into wealth.

“Since Enalius gifted our ancestors with a drop of his power and we were able to mine siphons, the Blood Rite has become the most important tradition in our culture,” Kallon continued. “Illyrians produce the best warriors Prythian has ever seen. Our bloody history shows that whilst we are perceived by High Fae and many others of our kind to be the lowest of faeries, we are triumphant in battle and far supersede not only the Night Courts forces, but the forces in every other court. We Illyrians are relied upon for our gifts, but we are treated as disposable when our talents are not required. The recent kerit attacks on our camps has highlighted what we have known for centuries; that the Night Court does not care about our race to provide sufficient protection.”

Another cessation of speech for what Cassian expected was not for Kallon to catch his breath, but to allow his words to settle. All of the war-lords and representatives remained eerily silent, and whilst they had originally sat forward as if they were waiting to jump in and protest, they were now stock still, drawn in by the words that they all already believed to be true.

“We suffered many losses in the war against Hybern,” Kallon pushed on. “Forces across all of our camps are drained and depleted. Whilst the Rite is an important part of who we are, the loss of more Illyrian lives would be the greatest sin. Enalius gifted all of our families with a drop of his blood so we could ensure that the Illyrian lines did not die out. That we could continue to perform our duty to honour and protect. My father and I have called you here today to consider a hiatus on the Blood Rite. To focus instead on strengthening our troops rather than inflicting more bloodshed upon our kind.”

Silence fell again as Kallon stopped talking. As, with a sweeping look around the table, the princeling sat back down and leant back into his chair with a superior expression on his face. No doubt a sense of achievement that he had captivated the hostile war-lords for enough time to say exactly what he intended. To plant the seeds in the minds of those who already did not look favourably towards their High Lord’s rule.

Lord Alcathoe was the first to snap. The war-lord from Swallow’s Ridge leant forward, his expression dark and openly aggressive. “The Blood Rite has been performed every year without fail. What claim do you have to suggest a hiatus?” 

“We have not ceased the Rite in the aftermath of war before,” Lord Hamel added. Hamel’s voice was monotone and bored, but Cassian had learnt from his many visits to Craggs Peak that the war-lord was as vicious as any of the other males around the table—worse than some, actually. One misplaced word and the war-lord was known to explode. 

Cassian thought it only a matter of time until everyone at the table witnessed it. 

“I don’t think a young whelp who has not fought in a war or earned his own siphons should be leading a discussion in which he has no place.”

“Watch your mouth, Hamel,” Marsh snarled in warning. “My son is smarter than all of your offspring, both the bastards and your true heirs. If you have any true heirs, that is.”

Hamel’s answering snarl had him rising out of his seat. The war-lord’s face had turned purple with rage and his teeth were bared. Spittle flew across the wooden surface of the strategy table. “If you weren’t already on your death bed, Marsh, I’d—”

“It is true that I do not yet own my own siphons and that I have not yet fought in a war,” Kallon interrupted, standing again with a flare of his wings. The sound snapped around the room, like a nine-tail whip cracking against skin. “But I see what our race has suffered at the hands of the Night Court. We are treated as expendable and as bodies rather than being valued for who we are and what we stand for. To put a hiatus on the Blood Rite will allow us to become stronger. It will allow our warriors to become proficient in the art of battle and for our numbers to rise. We cannot afford to lose any more warriors.”

The blood in Hamel’s face was slowly draining from purple to red. Still angry, but not as if he was going to self-combust. The war-lord had sunk back down into his seat, and it was clear that an internal conflict was going on in his mind; as he decided what held greater importance, his hatred of Anguis Marsh and his son, or his opinions on Night Court affairs. 

And the issue was that whilst there were statements of Kallon’s that were wrong—namely that the war was not an Illyrian cause and that Rhys saw the Illyrians as disposable— the princeling was also right. The Illyrians could not afford to lose any more warrior blood in the upcoming Rite. It was an issue Cassian had deliberated over repeatedly. One he had brought up with Rhys and Azriel. A problem they had decided not to interfere with for fear that it would set the Illyrians against them even further.

But what Kallon was doing… it was clever. It played on the Illyrians sensibilities and the ever-growing notion that they should not be ruled by Rhys’s hand. And if Kallon could get the war-lords to agree… he would be seen as a martyr, whilst the Night Court would be viewed as complacent in further deaths of the Illyrian race.

It would gain him support amongst the most influential of the Illyrians. It would strengthen the dissent. And if the war-lords made it clear that they were openly opposing Rhys’s rule, then many more Illyrians would follow their example. 

As if Kallon knew he was triumphant, he pinned Cassian with a stare. “Do you not agree, General? We have suffered the death of an entire aerial legion, plus many of our strongest warriors against Hybern. Surely you cannot argue that we should go ahead with the Blood Rite rather than strengthen our forces before we allow ourselves to suffer any more losses?”

Cassian and Lorrian were rabbits caught in a hunters snare and Kallon knew it.

“The Night Court agrees that we cannot afford to lose any more males in the Blood Rite,” Cassian replied, his voice so deep and commanding that he did not recognise his true self—the part of him that was not General but Fae. “Should another war come to Illyria, we need to ensure we can protect our kind and those throughout our court. A reprieve from the Blood Rite is the best way to prevent further bloodshed.”

A growl sounded from Icor. It was an abrupt, guttural sound that sounded too much like a temper tantrum. He had no doubt been expecting Cassian to side with him. “You have not answered the question, princeling. What right do you have to suggest a hiatus?” 

Across his cruel face, Icor looked briefly triumphant. A petulant child believing he’d won a game rather than contemplating the life or death of his best warriors. “So tell me, what right do we have to interfere with the will of our warrior Gods?”

“My son has been chosen by the Gods. By Enalius himself.” Marsh’s grating voice was deep and commanding. Forceful.

A dismissive snort. “I do not think—” Icor started, but Marsh dismissed Forktail’s war-lord entirely, and looked towards his son. His heir. 

“Show them,” Marsh ordered Kallon with a wave of his hand.

The princeling turned his head in a way that was more automaton than Fae. He looked towards the doors, where a male steward wearing Ironcrest colours stepped out of the shadows. 

In that moment, Cassian wished Nesta was in the room with them, if only to sense the emotions of every single war-lord as their lofty expressions turned carefully blank. As their eyes fell to the sword laying atop a velvet-crushed cushion the colour of mustard. 

Enalius’s sword. Or at least, a sword with ancient magical properties. 

Cassian could feel the hum of it in his blood—his magic—turning over inside of him, pressing against his skin as if it was trying to leap from his body and join with the steel. His siphons pulsed, his star ruby beating like a star-blessed heart. And from the look on every other males face, they could sense the magic of it, too.

The sword looked exactly as it did in the drawing printed in _Heroicis._ The sword Cassian had committed to memory as a youngling, as he stared at that inked drawing—the only thing he could understand as an illiterate bastard trying to make sense of a book full of words. The blade was arced, the steel etched with the Illyrian marks of glory that each of the war-lords wore on their own skin. The curved bone pommel gleamed as if it had been recently polished, even though the handle looked well-worn and cracked. 

Just as Frawley had reported, the oval jewel was missing from where it should sit on the wide guard.

Cassian knew without Frawley having to confirm it—with a certainty that was completely devoid of doubt—that Kallon was presenting them with Enalius’s sword. 

And worse, that the princeling would gain the begrudging respect of the males around this table for it.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday every one. Thanks for last week's comments. They were so lovely and I love to hear from you all!
> 
> This chapter is the one lots of you have been waiting for... not smut, but THE conversation. I hope you enjoy it... And sorry about the typos in this chapter, I can't look at this chapter any more! I'll try and scan over it tomorrow...
> 
> Lastly, just a head's up that I might not be able to post next Sunday. Work is super busy this coming week and I haven't yet started the chapter. I'll try my best, though :)

** Twenty-Eight  
** ** Cassian POV **

Lorrian and Cassian walked silently down the hall, following the servant who was scurrying in front of them. The sound of their footsteps rang around the hallway in an echo that was almost haunting, and if it wasn't for the meeting that has just adjourned—the Rite meeting which that was whirring around in his mind—Cassian would be contemplating how quickly he could organise their departure despite the wishes of his High Lord.

As distracted as Cassian was, he had still committed every corridor to memory. Every twist and turn as the house tunnelled into mountain rock. Up the wide staircase, right, second left, first right, next left… 

Deeper and deeper they moved into the mountain. No doubt to ensure that the General and Colonel felt as uneasy as possible. No Illyrian liked being unable to escape through a window and step straight into the skies, and from what Cassian could tell, there would be no windows or doors that led them straight out into the heavens. Only endless crystalline rock and shadow. 

Lord Marsh’s property always had been unusual in that way. Even though it was positioned on the wide ledge of the mountain pass, suspended high in the sky above the rest of the Ironcrest camp, the house did not stop when it hit the mountain wall. Instead, it tunnelled inside of it, providing a lodgings that was a vast, confusing labyrinth that was too easy to get lost in. 

It was why Cassian had been so loathe to stay the night. To stay any longer than necessary. 

Cassian could only thank the Cauldron that Rhys and Feyre’s presence had not been required. Neither of them deserved to be trapped inside a mountain again. Cassian supposed he could count his lucky stars that their presence had not been necessary. Would not be able to bear their anguish, even if they did their best to conceal it. 

“Your rooms,” the servant announced suddenly, with a bow that was so deep Cassian wouldn’t have been surprised if the male’s nose had scraped the floor. 

They had reached the end of the hallway, and in front of them was a heavy wooden door set into an arch.

Even through rock and stone, Cassian could sense Nesta. Knew she was located somewhere to the left with Frawley, thanks to that magnetic pull which never seemed to cease, even just for a moment. That was the one thing Nesta hadn’t been able to stop. She could constrict their bond as much as she liked—could freeze him out so nothing could travel up and down their twisted tether—but it didn’t stop him from being able to sense her. It was as if he was hyper alert to where she was. His body moved when hers did. His heart did its best to beat in tandem with hers. And when they were near, everything in him had a tendency to relax, as if he no longer had to worry.

Cassian didn’t know if Nesta felt the same. Would never know, given that they did not discuss their fate at all. 

Lorrian bid goodbye to the servant as Cassian stepped through the door and into a hallway that was equally as dark. Two doors flanked the short, cramped hallway and Cassian took the immediate left, pushing the door that was ajar so it creaked wide open. 

Unlike the rest of Marsh’s residence, the room was cast in a light that was almost unforgiving, betraying the dark ominous furniture and the gloomy crystalline rock thanks to bobbing faelights which Frawley had magicked to illuminate the room. To his left, fire raged silently in the grate, and ahead of him, in a huge stone bay straight ahead of him, sat Nesta. 

The carved out rock was fashioned as if it were a window—an irony, given how deep underground they were—and Nesta’s back rested against the far left-hand wall. Her knees were bent, and her long legs, which were hidden beneath her skirts, stretched across the expanse of the ledge. She was facing Frawley, who was sitting on the huge Illyrian bed which took up most of the floor space.

Cassian just had time to catch Nesta’s unfettered expression—the tight, bracketed mouth and the downward pull of her brows— before it was wiped clean.

“What happened?” she demanded, as Cassian cast a shield, throwing the whole suite into an impenetrable sound bubble.

Her eyes bore into his, and across the surface, silver roiled like liquid mercury. Despite her careful expression, he felt her worry and Cassian wondered just how much he had accidentally hurtled down their shared bond whilst he sat in that meeting to have her so concerned. 

“They’ve cancelled the Blood Rite,” Lorrian announced grimly, from where he had entered the room behind Cassian.

Nesta’s eyes snapped to Lorrian. Confusion twisted across her features, but she did not say anything.

“That,” Frawley said after a moment’s pause, “is very clever.”

Begrudgingly, Cassian nodded. Because it had been clever. None of them had seen it coming. The Solstice luncheon, which invited all of the nobility across Illyria, had been enough to ward away any suspicion when it came to the lordlings presence. Rite representatives were chosen privately by each camp, so there was no way that Cassian could have known that the lordlings who had recently met with Kallon planned to fill many of the positions. Nor had it crossed Cassian’s mind that the Rite meeting might have been pulled forward only for it to be cancelled, especially given how steadfast and stubborn Illyrians were when it came to tradition.

But, even if Cassian had asked Az to find out what representatives had been chosen for the Rite that year, they never could have predicted that Kallon intended to instate a hiatus on the most important ritual in Illyria’s long history—a political manoeuvre that would make the Night Court look even worse than it already did. 

“How did he get the lords to agree to it?” Frawley asked, as she watched her husband sink down into a chair that sat in the right hand corner of the room next to a dark, looming wardrobe that only served to make the room feel even more cramped. “Those princes will usually be damned if they listen to a word the other says.”

“The Rite representatives,” Cassian announced with a heavy sigh, wishing he too would give in to the temptation to sink down and sit somewhere. Next to Nesta, ideally. “All of them were lordlings who met with Kallon all those months ago. And the worst thing about it all is that Lorrian and I swayed the vote in Kallon’s favour. He played us and we walked straight into his damn den. It made us look as if we were agreeing with him for the sake of politics, rather than because we thought it ourselves.”

Which was the irony of the situation, Cassian thought to himself grimly. Cassian had been worried for a long time about the unnecessary loss of further lives due to the Blood Rite. Had been losing sleep over it, just as his nightmares continued to plague him whenever he did succumb to the clutches of the unconscious. There was already so much ash of flesh and bone on Cassian’s hands from when he had deserted his legion for desperate screams. And now… he was existing on stolen time—a time which had been bought by a female who at the end of it all, had not accepted his heart.

“Every word of Kallon’s appeal resonated with the Lords,” Lorrian told Nesta and Frawley as he ran his hands over his face… over his dark, close-cropped hair and the nicked scars on his scalp. “He played upon the sentiment that is already festering inside so many of the Fae in Illyria. That the Night Court uses our warriors for their own gain in war but does not care about them in the interim.”

“And then Kallon presented them with the damn sword,” Cassian growled, clenching his fists at the memory.

Frawley’s eyes gleamed so brightly her irises turned glacial blue and amber. “You saw it up close?” she asked, leaning forward so eagerly from where she was sitting on the mattress that she near folded in half. “And what did you feel?”

“Ancient magic,” Lorrian replied grimly, even as his wife continue to stare at Cassian. “My own magic spiked at the sight of it. It was…” he broke off and shook his head, “It was _odd_. All of the lords could feel it, I am sure of it. Not one of them disputed that it was Enalius’s.”

Cassian remembered the way his siphons had throbbed and the ruby star over his chest had pulsed so fiercely it felt like a second heart—as if it were answering a silent call that even he couldn't hear. Only Nesta’s power had made Cassian feel like that before. It didn’t matter if it was silver fire or healing light, Nesta’s magic called to him, chanting and moaning until he thought he might combust from it. 

But Cassian did not say any of that. Had barely dared to admit it to himself, let alone voice it out loud. So, instead, he flared his siphons and rummaged through the travel bag which appeared on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. 

His fingers found the book without having to search for it, his callouses brushing against soft brown leather. He pulled out _Heroicis_ , the gold-lettering on the cover shimmering as he flipped it open to peel back the delicate pages.

It was easy to find the illustration of the sword. Cassian had stared at the drawing so many times the book _wanted_ to be opened to that page. 

He placed the book down on the vanity.“It looked exactly like that,” he announced wearily, waving a hand to the illustration. “Except the jewel is missing.”

The rustle of clothing sounded as three Fae moved towards him. Cassian did not turn but he scented all three of them. Lorrian’s gentle rush of heat and sandalwood. Frawley’s damp forest earth after rain and air streaked with fire smoke. And then Nesta. She had drawn up to his left, but he would have known where she was in a room without scent or sight. Yet, he allowed himself the privilege of scenting her all the same, as that rush of her became sharper and more focussed, like a blade narrowing to an essential point: jasmine and vanilla and _Nesta._

Rivalling most Fae in height, Nesta’s head barely reached his shoulder. Cassian desperately wanted to wind his arm around her and pull her close, but out of the public eye they were no longer pretending. He didn’t want to push the boundaries that were already so brittle. Would not disrespect Nesta by overstepping the mark. Not unless she indicated she wanted it otherwise.

So, Cassian pushed away the stark vision of him moulding her to his body, or the way he had bowed earlier to press his lips to her knuckles. Tried not to ponder on the temptation of brushing his lips over her cheek by the end of their visit…

“I did not expect a General to carry epic poetry,” Frawley drawled in amusement, but there was an edge to her voice that told Cassian she was holding something back.

Lorrian snickered at his wife and did what Cassian had yearned to do to Nesta—he dropped a kiss to the top of the witch’s white head. The Colonel had used his siphons to peel back his armour as soon as the door had closed behind them. With it, his arm had disappeared, and the Colonel looked more like himself.

“Well, witch,” Cassian demanded with forced lightness, “is this an accurate depiction?”

“It is the only illustration I have ever seen that is correct,” Frawley said simply, her head cocked to the side so the white of her hair fell in an impossibly straight stream. The strands shimmered pearlescent in the light. The colour was almost otherworldly.

“Did you find anything out from the females?” Lorrian asked. He was rubbing over the stub of his limp, as if it was causing him phantom pain, his expression drawn tight. 

The change of subject wasn’t as abrupt as it seemed. Cassian knew why Lorrian was asking. If they found anything incriminating against Kallon or the Ironcrest clan, it would aid them in stifling the rebellion that at this point seemed inevitable. 

A fierce flare of pain wrangled through Cassian’s gut and his head snapped to Nesta, but she was staring fixedly at the book.

Lorrian had also turned sharply to Nesta, his eyes wide. His hand dropped from where he had been trying to ease the pain from his arm and his expression, although surprised, was free of any discomfort.

“Thank you,” Lorrian said quietly.

There was a pause that stretched out too long. All of them were silent, but Nesta dipped her chin without turning her head.

“The females didn’t speak beyond polite conversation,” Frawley began, steering all of their attention from Nesta. “But I did mention the kerit attacks on the widows camps.”

“Did you pick up any emotion?” Cassian asked Nesta.

“Yes,” Nesta replied, but her shrug dismissed the notion that she may have felt anything prominent. “Fear, disgust, anger towards the attacks. Most of it low level.”

Cassian frowned. “I suppose the attacks have not hit Ironcrest. They have not experienced the damage first hand.”

“There was a spike of horror and despair,” Nesta told him. “From someone. But I couldn't place it. It came from behind me and by the time I had turned the emotion had gone.”

Cassian stared down at Nesta. “Did you scent it? The insignia behind the emotion?”

Nesta shook her head. “All of the scents were jumbled. I got a flash of something, but I couldn’t—” Nesta stopped abruptly and her beautiful face twisted into a dissatisfied grimace. “If I sensed it again, I might recognise it, but—”

Already Cassian knew she was punishing herself. He refrained from putting a hand on her shoulder in silent reassurance. 

“Even a Fae with years of practice would find it difficult to associate the source of an emotion in a crowded room,” Frawley said with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if she too knew that Nesta would not stop the self-blame. That it would rage internally until it consumed her. “You do not have eyes in the back of your head.” 

“And from Kallon?” Cassian asked, even though he suspected he already knew the answer, and that he wasn’t going to like it. 

They all watched Nesta’s lips tighten into a thin line. Eventually, she said, “He likes my power.”

Cassian knew that expression. Knew from the way everything had gone very quiet that she had frozen him out so he would not know how the promise in those yellow eyes had turned triggered Nesta’s trauma.

But the problem was that Cassian had learnt to notice the slightest change in Nesta’s expression. Had catalogued every movement in the four months they had lived together, even when he didn’t know what it meant. 

Frawley’s brown eye flicked to Cassian. Even behind the brisk facade, Cassian could tell she was worried about Nesta. Cassian wondered what they had spoken about whilst he and Lorrian had been gone. “What time is this dreaded dinner?” she asked.

“In an hour,” Cassian grimaced. 

“And do you think the princeling will be carrying the sword with him, now he has confirmed the rumours?”

Lorrian grunted a laugh. Cassian wondered if he, too, was thinking of the way Kallon’s eyes had gleamed triumphant. How tempting it had been to smack the princeling around the face. “I think we can count on it.”

* * *

An hour later, the same servant escorted the four of them down the warren corridors to dinner. 

Both Lorrian and Cassian had discarded their full-scaled armour for tunics layered with a stainless steel cuirass over the top. That, coupled with plates and fingerless leather gauntlets on both of their hands, allowed Cassian and Lorrian to showcase their siphons. The light-weight pieces of armour were made of the usual Illyrian scales, and whilst the armour was more ornamental than for the purpose of fighting, Rhys had worked his magic so it was as indestructible as carbon steel, if not more. 

Lorrian’s right arm was back and glowing. Cassian understood why his friend wanted to face the vultures with all of his limbs, but he wished he could take Lorrian’s shame away. He supposed there was nothing to be done but to hope that time led to acceptance. Already Lorrian had come a long way. Had even started training with Cassian without his arm, learning to wield a sword with his left-hand should the occasion every call for it. 

It was that willingness to adapt that reminded Cassian why Lorrian was an exceptional warrior. Why he would conquer where others would fail. The Colonel would be prepared for every scenario. Would know how to balance his body with and without a limb. 

Opponents would not expect it. It would give Lorrian the upper hand in battle, rather than showcasing a weakness that anyone who knew about his limb would expect.

It meant that if Lorrian’s siphons ever became drained, that he could still fight.

Nesta and Frawley had also changed for dinner, even though the witch had grumbled at having to dress up for company she would rather obliterate from Prythian. Unsurprisingly, Nesta had only grown more divine with a change of clothes, but she had barely spared him a glance as she looped her hand through his arm. 

Which, Cassian thought, had been just as well, because he had not been able to stop his eyes from darkening and his wings from rustling at the sheer sight of her.

Now, Nesta held onto him as they followed the backs of Lorrian and Frawley from where they walked in front of them. The two of them had fallen slightly behind, most likely because of their hesitancy to fling themselves back in the path of the vultures that were Marsh and Kallon. 

And, Cassian admitted, because he had purposefully shortened his stride so he could glance surreptitiously at Nesta—at the dark, deep forest green of her long-sleeved dress, which had actually stopped Cassian’s heart and made his breath catch in his throat. Something which he knew Lorrian had clocked but had decided not to mention— thank the Cauldron.

The top half of the velvet material wrapped around Nesta’s every curve, before it billowed out softly at the hips into an A-line skirt. At her chest—which was bared rather than hidden away—the silver chain of the pyrite necklace fell tauntingly below the v-neckline.

Cassian thanked his lucky stars and the Gods combined that he could not glimpse her cleavage. 

“Want to go home yet?” Cassian murmured, breaking their silence. 

They had barely spoken since the luncheon and certainly not alone. Nesta had not commented when she had emerged from their bedroom. Had not mentioned the single bed that had taunted him when he had first entered to change. 

Cassian had ensured they were not in the room at the same time. Was actually terrified to close himself into such a small and cramped space with her. 

The way in which Nesta did not look up at him when he spoke told Cassian that she was very far away. Her huffed breath was practically inaudible, and she had an almost unreachable air about her that told him that for some reason, her trauma had caught up with her.

So, Cassian did what he did best. He decided to rile her.

“You’re going to have to lower your shields,” he warned her.

The slightest of frowns graced Nesta’s expression as they came to the end of a corridor and entered the vast landing that graced the first floor. Here, the flagstone floor was layered with a carpet runner that was dappled in brown and white, like the feathers of a hawk-crested eagle. “I’m aware,” Nesta clipped, that chin of hers raising as her back straightened.

Cassian brought a hand up to cover hers. Anything to get her to look at him. “You can stay in the room if you’d prefer,” he said quietly.

Those tempting lips thinned into a straight line. She turned her head away from him, so he could only see the intricate braid that weaved a halo around her head. “No, I can’t,” Nesta replied shortly. 

She was not wrong. Cassian would not leave her deep in the mountain where he could not protect her. Even if that meant taking her to a place where her trauma would intensify.

He hated himself for it. 

“I won’t let him harm you. I won’t let them touch you.” The words came out fiercer than he had intended, even if his voice was a low rumble. 

There must have been enough urgency in his voice, because finally Nesta twisted her head to look up at him. Those eyes were a little less hollow. “I know,” she replied simply. Her eyes slid to a spot past his head. “I might harm them, though.”

A dark, please laugh issued from his throat, even as he wished that mercury would slide over the frosty blue of her irises. Nesta had issues summoning her magic when she succumbed to the numbness, and Cassian did not want her in this Gods damned awful place without her power at her disposable.

“I look forward to seeing it,” he responded smoothly, but his heart fell as she turned away from him again.

Desperation clawed at his insides—at the bond which was constricted by ice—that the next words left him without contemplating the gravity of them. “Are you wearing that dress to taunt me, Nesta?”

Nesta’s eyes snapped to his so quickly that everything in him jolted. A dim light throbbed in the depth of her gaze. “Excuse me?”

“This dress,” he said in a low confession, “has become my favourite thing.”

An unamused snort, even as a glimmer of embarrassment forced its way down their bond. It was fleeting and barely there, but Cassian felt it. Grasped for it.   


“Your favourite thing is chocolate,” she replied shortly.

“My favourite thing is you,” he corrected, scarcely believing his loose tongue. He made his eyes glint playfully. “Chocolate is a close second.”

“In fact,” he mused after a moment’s pause. “The two together—”

“In your dreams,” Nesta snapped, her words coming out so sharply and with such aggression that both Frawley and Lorrian’s heads whipped round to stare at them.

Cassian grinned wolfishly, watching Lorrian shake his head at the obvious fire in Nesta’s eyes. The fire that Cassian was doing everything to rally. 

Both of his friends had noticed Nesta turn silent in the hour before dinner, but neither of them had uttered a word. They understood the peaks and troughs—the challenges of life when things became too hard. 

“That comeback again, sweetheart? I’d have thought you’d have something more original by now.”

“You are insufferable,” Nesta clipped. But at her hands… a wisp of that mist. 

“Do you not like being complimented” Cassian taunted, stifling the way his blood soared at the faint pink that stained her cheeks—another blessed reaction. 

Together they descended the elaborately wide staircase, moving slowly to accommodate for Nesta’s skirts. Usually, Cassian had no time for impractical attire, but he had long learnt that Nesta could wear whatever she liked and he would accept it, no matter how ill-thought-out. 

Nesta’s hold on his arm tightened into a death grip. 

She was not looking at him again. Deliberately avoiding his gaze, even as his eyes did not once stray from her face, his legs carrying him blindly as he furiously scanned her in the hope of finding an expression.

Finally, Nesta said with a quiet that did not lack in intensity, “A compliment isn’t true if it’s designed to be a distraction.”

Cassian huffed a breath of laughter. Of course, she had seen right through him. Yet…

He dared to lean towards her, to close the distance between them so he could murmur into her elegantly tipped ear. “It was a distraction,” he confessed honestly, as they turned down the corridor that led off to the right-hand side of the foyer, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, does it?”

Blue, smoky eyes latched onto his, Nesta’s chin tilting upwards to meet his gaze. It was a torturous form of bliss, the movement bringing her face far too close to his own. She stared at him and he stared right back, even as his heart thumped hard against his ribcage. 

He lowered his head further. Watched Nesta’s eyes widen ever so slightly as he closed the distance between them. She had stilled completely, halting them just outside of the dining room. 

This time he allowed his lips to ghost her ear. Let the Illyrian roll of his tongue. Savoured her suppressed shiver. The spark of _something_ which wound itself around his ribcage. “After you, _amore_.”

Cassian made himself wink as he straightened up, as if he were entirely unaffected by her proximity.

And then he steered her into the dining room. 

* * *

Dinner was worse than Cassian had anticipated, and by the time the four of them arrived back at their suite, none of them were bothering to hide their exhaustion. The door had barely shut behind them when Frawley brusquely announced that the sword which had been showcased at dinner was undoubtedly Enalius’s, before she disappeared into her room with Lorrian following closely behind.

The first thing Cassian had done upon entering he and Nesta’s shared room was to flop onto the bed. Dealing with Lord Marsh was trying at the best of times, but tackling Lord Marsh, Kallon and the other arrogant lords, as well as the drama that came with it… Cassian had been fighting a headache all day and the pressure was now a keen, insistent throb behind his eyes.

That, coupled with a tense dinner that had slowly chipped away at his pain threshold, had Cassian desperately wanting to slide beneath the sheets and succumb to sleep.

To Cassian’s surprise, Marsh had not been present at dinner, and from the way that Kallon had sat unfazed at the head of the table, Cassian gathered that it was not an unusual occurrence. 

Kallon had held audience with an ease that had rivalled Rhys when he was playing cruel High Lord during a visit to the Hewn City, and apart from the shadows of servants lining the walls, no other lords and ladies had been present at dinner.   


It had been a surprising move. Cassian had expected Kallon to parade and taunt in front of the watchful eyes of the Illyrian nobility, who would no doubt disappear later to whisper into others ears… 

But, instead, it had only been the five of them. That had been enough to tell Cassian that whilst Kallon might have no qualms in wielding words as vicious as Nesta’s, he did not believe he could control the tongues of those he was dining with. That he knew—despite the sword that lay gleaming on the gilded cushion further down the table—that his company had the capability of maiming him if they saw fit.   


Something which Kallon could not afford given his victory earlier that afternoon.

That fear came to a conclusion halfway through their main course, when Kallon deigned to insinuate that females were not designed to wield a sword.

“Are you saying,” Nesta asked with the deathly sort of calm that had Cassian tensing, “that you do not deem females worthy of protecting themselves?”

“I think that the Night Court should protect the entirety of its court so the females don’t have to worry about protecting themselves,” Kallon had responded swiftly, his sharp knife slicing into his bloody steak as if it were nothing but butter. 

“What you are saying,” Frawley had corrected, her voice brusque and hard, “is that you do notsee females as having any other purpose than bearing younglings.”

“Is that not their purpose?” Kallon had challenged. He paused, surveying all of their faces with a grim sort of satisfaction, before he had pressed on, “Is that not what is needed for a race who has lost more males in this war than it has seen in hundreds of years?”

“A female’s worth is not found in their ability to reproduce,” Nesta had responded coolly. Her voice, Cassian had noticed, had become slow and measured, a sure sign that there was going to be an outburst of flame. “In fact, I have not met one male in Illyria who is more worthy of learning how to wield a weapon than the females in Illyria’s camps.”

“And does that sense of worth extend to the males around this table?” Kallon had replied, his yellow eyes gleaming at the sudden opportunity. Like the rest of the residence, the dining room had been dimly lit, illuminated by faint faelight and the fire that raged in the hearth. It meant that shadows had crept across the walls and table as Kallon leant forward to where Nesta was sitting at his right. “I assume not, given your tendency to fuck anything that moves.”

The sentence was as abrupt as a slap to the face, but Nesta did not move. Did not give any indication that the princeling’s words had hit home, even as Cassian’s gut had wrenched. 

“It is funny,” Nesta had mused icily, her voice as cold as the fiercest Illyrian winter, “that you should try to shame me, especially given that if I was a male, I am sure you would be praising me for such a consistent pursuit of pleasure.”

Carefully, Nesta had set down her goblet, her eyes boring into the princeling’s with such intensity that Cassian had been surprised that the male hadn’t burst into flame. 

Other than Frawley’s snort of agreement, nobody had dared to move. Time had passed. Time in which Cassian vowed to remain steadfast to his silent promise that he should not interference unless it was absolutely necessary. Even as Kallon did not back down. 

Together, they had all watched the princeling settle back into his chair with the relaxed sort of ease that had Cassian wanting to castrate him. “Perhaps then, I should surprise you by showing you my room in case you fancy pursuing some real pleasure later—”

“That is—” Cassian had started to snarl, banging a fist on the table, just as Lorrian had growled, the sound a low, deep warning—

And that was when the entire room had glowed silver, the magic snapping around the room with such ferocity that it was like a whip cracking against bare skin. 

When Nesta’s magic dropped—when Cassian’s blood had reduced to a simmer rather than boiling—Cassian realised that exercising her magic had been the perfect excuse for Nesta to silence the fire that had been spitting in the grate behind them. The fire from which Cassian had spent the entirety of the meal trying to shield her from as best as possible, his wing curled protectively around the back of her chair.

Even so, the showcase of Nesta’s power had been startling and undeniably effective. As Nesta’s temper had flared, that silver fire had ignited in the grate, swallowing the orange flames as mist wreathed up her arms, eddying around her at such speed that it began to seep across the table towards Kallon.

And the whole time Kallon’s eyes had gleamed. Not with fear, but with the kind of awe that Cassian felt when he’d first witnessed how magnificent Nesta was.

It had taken everything in Cassian not to leap across the table and rip the princeling’s head from his body. From the way Frawley was gripping Lorrian, it had seemed as if his friend felt the exact same way. 

But to Cassian’s surprise, Nesta had only let out a low, cruel laugh which had sliced through any of Cassian’s intention to intervene. 

Instead, he had watched, riveted as those eyes of pure mercury raked up and down Kallon’s body with a look of unbridled disgust. And when Nesta had spoken, her voice was as terrifying as the promise of death, “I would never deign to lower myself by sharing a bed with you,” she told Kallon, “and I certainly hope that no other female has been forced to endure it.”

Infuriatingly, Kallon had only let out a musical laugh rather than a snarled retort. “And I suppose you would rather pair yourself with a male who has nothing to give you—not a title or a name, only the promise of a cheap necklace? Perhaps that is why you seem to have no true inclination to secure your future with him.”

Then, Kallon had slowly dragged his eyes to Cassian. “I would have thought your role in leading the Night Court’s armies would pay better than that, General. But I suppose you can’t take the bastard out of the slums.”

It had been at that point that Nesta had found Cassian’s hand under the table. It had been the most careful of movements—unnoticeable to anybody but them. The clasp of her fingers around his and the easing of the pain and fury in his gut had been the only thing that had stopped him from either beating Kallon to a pulp or leaving the meal in a rage.

Both of which would only have allowed Kallon to emerge triumphant… So, they had eaten in the sort of tense silence, speared sporadically with the odd ferocious comment. And at the end of the table, that damned sword had lain on its gilded cushion, gleaming magnificently in the firelight, calling to Cassian’s power in a way that pulled at his skin…

Now, recollecting the monstrosity of the evening, Cassian wanted to ward away the feeling of unworthiness that still lay bitter on his tongue. There was also a sense of foreboding that he could not shake. A terrible knowledge that whatever he and Nesta hadconstructed between them was something false rather than true.

There were so many cracks they had hastily tried to ignore. So many past actions that had been pushed to the background rather than being acknowledged. 

Cassian didn’t know what would happen if they were addressed. If it would fling the two of them so far back into the past that it would shatter the present. 

Yet… it seemed inevitable. A hulking, looming presence that clung to them like a shadow. 

But for now… Cassian wanted lightness. He wanted to know that he and Nesta were ok. So he waved a hand tiredly at the room, and said, “Sorry we have to share.”

“It’s fine,” Nesta replied finally, as if she had been so far away it had taken her a while to rope herself back to reality. 

Cracking open an eye, Cassian watched her close the bedroom door behind her. She had shut their bond as soon as they had left the dinner table. Cassian did not know if it was a deliberate move to kick him out, or just an attempt to sever any emotion. He knew she must be feeling raw. Lowering one’s shields did that, especially for Nesta, who felt more than everyone else. Azriel had warned him of that. Had confirmed what Cassian and Feyre had always thought. That Nesta’s gift expanded outside of the power she had clawed from the Cauldron. Something which had always existed inside of her, but which had been magnified further when she was Made. 

“I wouldn’t want my own room here,” Nesta elaborated, when she observed him studying her.

Cassian watched Nesta’s ever perceptive eyes scan the room: the simple, whitewashed walls and the pine furniture. The room was of moderate size, although Cassian would wager that it wasn’t Lord Marsh’s biggest guest room. That silent rebuff hadn't gone unnoticed— not that Cassian cared. He had endured far worse conditions, after all. 

Most of the floor space was taken up by the Illyrian bed, which was big enough for two sets of wings. Now, Nesta hovered beside it as if she were unsure what to do next. It was the most awkward he had ever seen her.

“By all means,” he drawled tiredly, waving to the other side of the mattress. He folded the wing that he had spread onto the other side—her side—of the bed, “I can sleep on the floor. Just...give me a moment.”

Ignoring his invitation, Nesta floated over to the dressing table instead. Propping his head under a bent arm, Cassian watched her as she started to slowly take the pins out of her hair. 

For a long while, the clink of metal on wood was the only noise that filled the room, and Cassian was just about to ask Nesta how many gods damned pins she used, when she started to slowly unspool the hair from the top of her head. Jaw slightly slack, Cassian watched in awe as Nesta parted the thick strands of the braid with well-practiced hands. When she was finished, she began to brush it out, until the light brown strands shimmered gold in the faelight and the teeth no longer snagged on knots. 

Cassian wondered if any male had ever seen her do this: the simple act of getting ready for bed. He hoped not. There was something intimate about watching Nesta let her hair down, as if every pin that came out of her head removed a little bit of that mask, revealing a younger, softer version of the hot-headed hellcat he usually had to contend with.

“You’re staring.” 

The words clipped through the silence, as sharp as a cutting knife. 

Well, perhaps she wasn’t a softer version, after all.

Cassian’s eyes slid to Nesta’s in the mirror. In the dim faelight, the blue of her irises had given way to a stormy, mesmerising grey. He made his lips pout, even as he imagined running his fingers through the soft strands. “Your hair looks prettier than mine.”

The faintest of smiles tugged at Nesta’s lips. It was slightly wicked, the only warning she gave him before she tossed him the ivory-handled brush. 

Cassian’s hand snapped up, catching the brush inches from his face, his eyes never straying from hers. 

His grin was triumphant and when Nesta _rolled_ her eyes at him, the gesture so uncharacteristically playful, satisfaction burned through every pore, every fibre of his being. 

How far they had come. 

“Then brush it, you stupid brute. I won’t deny that it needs it.”

Cassian laughed throatily—the first true laugh he had let loose that day. “I thought you liked my rugged looks?”

A soft, unimpressed snort. “A wholly made up notion.” 

He watched Nesta rummage through her travel bag and pull out a white cotton nightdress and some toiletries, before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. He brushed his hair whilst the water ran and then peeled off his clothes, baring his skin to the chill air. 

The glare Nesta sent him when she reemerged would have sent a lesser male scarpering. It made him wonder how any of the males she had bedded had even made it home with her in the first place. She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest, which only emphasised the swell of her breasts beneath the cotton. She was still wearing the pyrite, and the metal shone mockingly against her creamy skin—silver flecked with gold. 

The sight of it so close to her cleavage had him biting back a groan. 

Mother Above, he had to get a grip if they were going to sharing a room all night.

“You can’t wear night clothes like a normal person?” Nesta hissed at him. 

With a taunting grin, Cassian rested a hand on a hip, highlighting his tight undershorts. He refrained from flaring his wings—largely because the space did not accommodate for it. “I usually sleep nude, sweetheart, which would you prefer?”

And then, not waiting for her to start on him, he headed straight for the bathroom, making sure their skin brushed as he passed. 

To his delight, Nesta’s angry snarl chased him until he closed the bathroom door firmly behind him.

When he reappeared five minutes later, Nesta was already under the covers with her nose buried in a book. Silent, silver flames licking fiercely up the chimney from the open fire grate. The heat was fiercely warm and very welcome, especially given that this deep underground, there was little warmth to be found. The heat sunk deliciously into his skin, and Cassian flared his wings slightly to fight the goosebumps that were scattered across the sensitive membrane. 

Since Nesta had lit the torch at the widows funeral, she had taken to lighting the fires throughout the house, and Cassian had become so used to the glow of silver flames in the log burners that he barely bat an eyelid.

It warmed him, though, to see the bungalow alight with silver and warmth. To see Nesta unafraid and relaxed. To see her sit near the fire, rather than as far away from it as possible. 

“I didn’t see you sneak a book into the bag,” Cassian commented, as he pulled a blanket from the wardrobe and pulled on some loose pants. He had been teasing her before about sleeping in his undershorts. He’d mainly wanted to pull a reaction from her, to see how she would respond to his bare skin. 

Her hiss had been satisfying enough. Not that Cassian hadn’t hoped for more. A too long glance, or even better, a blush.

Nesta didn’t glance up at Cassian as she turned the page. “You should know better than to think I’d travel without a book.”

He watched her eyes move across the page, utterly absorbed. Her long hair fell over her face and unconsciously she tucked the strand behind an elegantly arched ear. A signature move of hers, however unconscious, that he had yet to name. It was fast becoming one of his favourites.

Nodding, Cassian reached for the pillows on his side of the bed to distract himself from looking at her. Her next words made him pause.

“Just stick to your side.” 

Nesta did not look up. She gave none of her focus to him yet she must have been watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“I don’t mind,” he reassured her after a moment.

A flip of a page. “There’s no room for your wings down there.”

She was right. It was a tight enough squeeze for his body let alone the wings on his back, and the blanket would do little to protect him from the cold flagstone floor. Cassian had endured far worse, of course, but the thought of tucking his wings in that tight all night... well, he’d suffer for it tomorrow. And even though he knew sleeping an arms length away from her would be torture of a different kind...

“Thank you,” he conceded softly.

No acknowledgement, yet… this was progress. Only months ago, Nesta would have made him sleep on the cold just to watch him suffer. 

A contented groan escaped him as the mattress moulded to his sore back. He rolled onto his side, flaring his wings to settle behind him and examined her.

The faded paperback Nesta was reading was well-worn. Many of the pages were dog-eared and Cassian knew that he’d seen her curled up with it before. He craned his neck in an attempt to try and read the title on the spine. He would bet good money it was a love story. No, he would bet his _entire wealth_ that it was a love story.

It was quick, but he caught Nesta’s darting glance. It was enough for him to break the silence.

“Why do you read romance novels?” 

A burning question Cassian had wanted to ask her more times than he could count. On both hands. 

Not that he didn’t have his own theory on that.

“Why do you read books about war?” Nesta countered.

A slow, taunting smile. “I asked you first, sweetheart.” 

Nesta rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Why can’t I read them?”

Cassian bit back a growl of frustration. “You can read whatever you like. What I mean is why do you enjoy reading romance novels so much?”

Nesta bookmarked her page with a scarlet ribbon—a gesture at odds with the earmarked pages—and placed it on the nightstand with a sigh. “I revoke my offer, you can sleep on the floor.”

“But what about my poor wings,” he whined.

“Feyre’s right, you really are Illyrian babies.”

Cassian scowled. “I’m full of testosterone, thank you very much.”

Nesta snorted. “Rumour has it that Azriel has the largest wingspan.”

The soft snarl that tore out of Cassian’s mouth surprised even him. He hadn’t made the noise deliberately, it had been completely unconscious, just as much as the next words out of his mouth. “Would you like me to prove you wrong, Nesta?” 

His voice had turned low and husky without his bidding, as if it had done so purely on instinct. Maybe allowing himself to get in the same bed as Nesta had been a mistake. The scent of her was enough to cloud his judgement and this close... He could have his mouth on hers in seconds.

“I’d like anything but, actually,” Nesta clipped, completely unfazed by his act of dominance. “Besides, males seem to forget that it’s style over substance.”

Propping himself up on an elbow, Cassian leant towards her. He arched an eyebrow at her, his expression cocksure. Somehow, his headache had completely vanished. “Lucky for you, I have both.”

Nesta’s groan was one of long suffering. She reached to undo the clasp of the chain around her neck.

“Don’t take it off.”

Nesta’s head snapped around to his, his sudden command at odds with their banter. He held up his hands, the two ruby siphons glinting from where they sat firmly on the leather straps.

“We’re in that much danger?” she asked. 

Cassian sunk back down onto his side, “I’m not taking any chances, and... I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re not wearing it.”

Nesta’s lips parted slightly but her hands slowly withdrew from her neck. The stone glinted briefly against Nesta’s skin and then she extinguished the lights.

The soft flicker of silver that glowed from the hearth was the only reprieve from the darkness that fell across the room. Cassian wondered if flames would go out when Nesta fell asleep or if they would keep on burning. 

The sheets rustled as Nesta got comfortable. In the following silence, Cassian could make out the reassuring thump of her heart. It wrapped around his own, the feeling a comfort until his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed. 

“He’s horrible,” Nesta said suddenly into the darkness.

“Marsh?” Cassian asked, but he knew who she meant. Wasn’t sure why he didn’t say it out loud.

“Him too, but I meant Kallon.” 

Cassian grunted in agreement. Then, he dared to say, “He’s taken a liking to you.”

Revulsion forced its way down their constricted bond and into his gut. 

Cassian didn’t need to look at Nesta to know her expression was hard. “He’s a pig-headed Illyrian brute.”

A flicker of a smile tugged at Cassian’s mouth, despite the subject. “I thought I was a pig-headed Illyrian brute?”

“Then I’ll have to rework my insults for you in light of recent events.”

Cassian barked another true laugh. Would Nesta ever stop surprising him? He suspected that if they were to spend a lifetime together, he would never grow bored. Would never be tempted to look in another female’s direction.

“I feel both triumphant and expectant,” he confided, before he sobered. “You didn’t have to defend me, earlier. I’m used to the comments. It doesn’t matter what I do, but my race will always see me as a bastard first and a General second. Being coupled with you is not something they will ever believe I deserve.”

More rustling of the sheets as Nesta turned onto her side to face him. Through the shadows, Cassian’s Fae eyesight could make out Nesta’s eyes staring directly at him. Even in the muted light, they were mesmerising. “I had a pretence to upkeep,” she replied shortly, as if that explained everything. But then her voice became so quiet that his ears strained to hear her. “You’re worth more than them.”

Usually, Cassian would have teased Nesta for voicing something so groundbreaking, but in this room—in this shared bed—the words dissolved on his tongue. He was momentarily speechless, so much so that the silence became awkward and weighted. His family had attempted to address his insecurities before, but it had never been enough to quash the beliefs that had been drummed into him from a young age. Cassian, too proud to succumb to the seriousness of the conversation, had brushed his family off until they left him well alone. 

Azriel was the only one who truly understood; it was why he had never seen himself worthy enough to pursue Mor.

By the time Cassian summoned the courage to open his mouth, Nesta was already speaking, “How do they know about the war?”

The question made his heart stop. Not just because Nesta had mentioned a subject they usually stayed well clear of, but because, for the first time, she was addressing what had happened between them on the battlefield. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly, ignoring the way his heart had begun to hammer in his chest. “By the time the healer had mended my wings everyone was talking about it. I think a conversation must have been overhead by a healer.” He paused, hoping Nesta might speak again. When she didn't, he added, “I was… very angry when I found out.” He palmed a hand over his face to try and soothe away the nerves that were humming agitatedly inside of him.   


He had done his best to ignore the whisperings behind his back, and, at first, it hadn’t been hard. The aftermath of the war had taken all of his attention. Cassian had barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone digest the gravity of what others had found out. Not that he hadn’t gotten the gist of it in drabs: the entirety of the Night Court knew of how they had defended one another; how Nesta had been willing to die with Cassian when she could have run...

They did not know what he had promised. That he had kissed her, even though they were calling it the greatest love story in centuries. Cassian would never forget how Nesta had lain over him when she’d had the chance to run, and the urgency to her voice—the way it had cracked—as she had said; _I can’t._

It was those two words which hounded Cassian the most, because even now, he did not know whether Nesta had said that because she hadn’t wanted to leave him, or because she had no choice.

“I assumed it was my sister and her loose mouth.”

Nesta’s words startled Cassian, bringing him back to the dark room rather than the muddy battlefield where his body was broken but his heart was full and aching. And in truth, Cassian had expected Nesta to draw a line under the conversation by ignoring him and feigning sleep, the next morning a fresh page where they need not bring up the previous night’s discussion.

Despite the dark, Cassian nodded, even though he was unsure as to whether Nesta could see it. 

He had considered the same about Feyre. Not on purpose, of course, but by mistake. Feyre had been a witness. The original witness. “One thing I’ve learnt growing up Fae is that there are eyes and ears everywhere,” Cassian said eventually. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t prefer having my business kept to myself.”

Cassian knew Nesta was fiercely private, far more than him. Was it that invasion coupled with the monumental pressure that came with being spoken about by Fae and humans alike, as they whispered about the greatest love story in Prythian—the lowly bastard and the human Made Fae—that had been the final straw for her? Or had it been the death and destruction which had slammed the door shut on something as naive and fanciful as love? 

The desperation to know—to understand—was so fierce that Cassian could not stop himself from asking what he had never dared, “Is that why you wanted nothing to do with me?”

A long, stony silence that eventually began to simmer with anger. Cassian did not know if it was the audacity of him having asked, or for bringing unwanted memories to the surface.

Finally, Nesta clipped, “I wanted nothing to do with someone who treated me as second best.”

The icy dismissal in Nesta’s tone had goosebumps rising on Cassian’s bare arms. Recently their conversations had been a torturous, delicious heat rather than frosty. But this delivery… it made Cassian feel as if he had stepped back into the past.

They were going there, then. A conversation Cassian never dreamed they would have. Yet, here they were... and suddenly he was so terrified it would ruin everything he wished it would stop. Even as he asked in a low voice, “In what capacity?”

Snapped words like the crack of a whip. “In every capacity. Let me go to sleep.”

“Nesta,” Cassian pressed, not caring that it was dangerous. Desperate to try and understand why they were not together when his entire body was begging him to close the distance. He knew she must feel it too. Hoped that she did. That it was not just a wishful fantasy on his part. Cassian had always thought their chemistry undeniable. It was what scared him. 

It never went away, the wanting. 

“What do you mean second best?” he urged.

“The fact that you do not know shows how stupid you are,” Nesta replied coldly, turning away from him, signalling that the conversation was over. Through the shadowy dark, Cassian could make out the slope of her shoulder and the outline of her curvaceous side. The spill of her hair, a tempting drape across the pillow.

He curbed most of the desperation that wanted to creep into his voice. “You are speaking of Mor.”

An abrupt snort of confirmation.

“Mor is my family,” Cassian said carefully, even though he knew his words would not convince Nesta.

“Your dynamic is not familial.”

“Not at the start, no,” Cassian admitted, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. To give himself distance. Because he could not bear to stare at her turned back as she tried to shut him out. “We slept together once when we were very young. It has never been repeated.” He blew out a long breath as he ran a hand over his face, trying to smooth over his pained expression. “She used me to lose her maidenhead. I don’t know how much you know, but Mor was mutilated by her family for it—she was dumped in the Autumn court with a note nailed to her womb for her betrothed to find her. It collapsed her marriage proposal and I have been responsible for that mutilation every day since, not least for driving a wedge between me and my brother.”

As he trailed off, the blankets moved and to his surprise, Nesta’s shoulder dipped slightly towards him. He’d clearly piqued her interest. “You mean Azriel.”

“Yes,” Cassian admitted bitterly. “I slept with Mor because I was a jealous prick and Az was besotted with her. His diverted attention made me feel like I had lost my brother and I thought it would make him move on.” Loosing another sigh, Cassian rubbed his tired eyes with the heel of his palms. “I grew up alone, so when I moved in with Rhysand’s mother and Azriel joined us… he and Rhys were the closest I had ever had to a real family. When we were a three, it was the first time I had ever been truly happy. Mor threatened that, so I did what I thought would remedy it. I was a naive, arrogant prick and bedding Mor is a regret that I have lived with ever since.”

Pausing, Cassian took in a deep breath. He’d never voiced any of this out loud before. It had always been something he and his family did not discuss out in the open, not until recently with Mor, anyway. And he had not gone into so much depth. 

He hoped that Nesta understood what it had meant for him to be happy for the first time, when before that he had been miserable and alone. Nesta herself had confessed to Frawley that she did not know when she had last felt joy, but then Cassian had felt it the other day, the sensation so wonderful in her stomach he felt as if he had been knocked of breath. He had flown to find her, followed that tether between them that was more visceral than he had ever felt it, before he realised that this was not his moment to experience. So he had turned around in the skies, headed back home, waited to see Nesta later. Her face had been flushed… but her face, it was free of that mask. With it, her expression was less severe and the light in her eyes made her irises a shade lighter. It was the most beautiful thing Cassian had ever seen. And when she had seen him, she had smiled without thinking. As if he, too, brought her joy.

It had been a quiet smile. Secret. His.

But where could Cassian even start to begin explaining the mess of the love triangle between Mor, Azriel and himself? Of the guilt he felt for a few minutes of pleasure which nearly costed Mor her life. 

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “I felt so much guilt over what I had done—over what happened to Mor and for betraying Azriel like that—I spent the next five hundred years doing everything I could to make things easier between them. Azriel doesn’t think he is worthy of Mor and Mor isn’t interested. So I stepped in when I could… I eased the tension. I let Mor use me as a buffer and it just… it became a bad habit. We fell into an unusual friendship. Mor can be very protective of me.” He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I can see how things were misconstrued. I think about it a lot, Nesta. I think about it all the time.”

Only silence met his confession. 

“Things won’t be like that anymore,” he pressed on. Because he needed Nesta to understand that Mor was not in the equation—that she never had been—even though he was sure he and Nesta would never be anything but two Fae forced into close quarters. “Mor has finally been honest with Azriel.”

No reply. Nesta had turned preternaturally still again, as if she weren’t breathing.

“Nesta?"

“What.”

It was only one word but it was more vicious than anything she had said to him in months. 

He felt his blood heat as he propped himself up onto an elbow. “Are you going to say anything, or are you going to ignore me and pretend this conversation never happened?”

Nesta’s body moved slightly beneath the sheets as her muscles seized up. “I don’t think any of it matters now, so it’s not relevant.”

“It has always been relevant to me.” Cassian’s voice came out as a low hiss, his self-control snapping as his vulnerability became too much to bear. He threw a protective bubble around the room, sound proofing them inside. For the sake of their pretence, he couldn't have Fae ears overhearing their conversation. And… he could not bear Lorrian and Frawley listening to something so painful. “You terrify me, Nesta, because I have never been so fucking captivated by anyone in the whole five hundred years I have been alive. From the very start you were different and it scared the shit out of me. My entire family knew it, too. I’m not a fan of everyone knowing my business, either, believe it or not, and they witnessed you putting me down at every step.”

Nesta’s snort was so cold that his entire blood heated fire. He was thankful for the dark to conceal how red his face has turned. He wanted to throttle her at the same time as he wanted to press her into the mattress and slant his mouth on hers. To show her that even now he only wanted her. That Mor meant nothing. Hadn’t for centuries. That he’d royally fucked up in so many ways that he didn’t even know how to start apologising.

“If you cared so much, perhaps you would not drop my hand when your _friend_ enters the scene, or gift her lingerie whilst I am in the same room. You are disgusting,” she spat. 

Then, Nesta was facing him again with such sudden speed that Cassian braced himself for an attack, but Nesta only propped herself up onto an elbow. Her hair fell like a curtain over her shoulder, the flare of silver from her fingertips lighting the room with a sudden brightness. 

“You asked why I read romance novels,” Nesta said, her voice having dropped suddenly into a quiet fervour that was no less chilling. “I read them because I was engaged to a boy who turned out to be cruel, and I have watched a five hundred year old male discard and ignore me as he pleased. I would rather read about love than be in it. After all, I recall you saying that I was not worthy of love.”

“Sweetheart—” Cassian croaked. The blood had drained from his face and he knew that if he were to look in the mirror all he would see was a haunted ghost of himself. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to say that. You were so empty. I couldn’t reach you and so I lied. I thought you’d get angry at me, but instead you just walked away.”

“You are not unloveable,” he told her fiercely, when she remained silent and so fiercely sad his heart clenched. He had not known that she was engaged to that human filth. “You are the exact opposite. If anything—” 

He stopped abruptly. Took stock. Her light was still glowing around them, illuminating the room in an ethereal mist, which he would have considered beautiful if the two of them hadn’t been consumed by such agony.

“You’re not unloveable,” he insisted vehemently, after a moment’s pause. “And love doesn’t work like that. You can’t choose not to love, sweetheart. You know—”

“We decide how we act on it, that’s what matters,” Nesta interrupted, that mist sparking momentarily into flame before it was eaten by shadow.

And that was the crux of it. The truth behind the words—the calculated response that told Cassian that Nesta had thought of this over and over again. He would not change her mind when it came to him, because it all boiled down to her ability to choose. And he was not a choice. He had been thrust upon her. They were history rather than present. Would always be that way, it seemed.

Cassian fell onto his back as the gravity of the realisation crushed him with such force that for a moment, he felt as if he was choking. 

“It was wrong of me to do those things,” Cassian said quietly, forcing out the hoarse words through the tightness in his windpipes. “All of it was wrong of me. I know that, Nesta. You may think I’m old but around you I find myself a teenager.On Solstice last year I didn’t know how to deal with the situation so I ignored you before you could do it to me and then regretted it later. I hoped you would speak to me. I hoped—”

_That you would change your mind. That you would want to be with me. That you would stop fucking all those males. That you would forgive me._

But Cassian did not say those things. Instead, he said, “Look, we just need to pretend to be together for one more day and then you don’t have to think about being tied to anyone ever again.”

Silence.

That as all he needed to move. Logic told him that he should stay put—that he should remain calm and rational rather than affected—but the pain was too much, and he found himself sitting up and pushing off the covers. He needed distance. In this room, all he could scent was her—jasmine and vanilla—and it hurt to be so close and know that he could not comfort her without the knowledge that she’d set him alight. 

Cassian had thought he’d drawn a line under it all. Thought he’d accepted that he was content to co-habit with her and resist the undeniable pull between them for the rest of his days. But they had taken such big steps forward recently. Had thought things had continually shifted until all it boiled down to was their connection, which ran far deeper than twists of rope and a damn Cauldron. 

At times, Cassian had even thought Nesta had wanted him to touch her. Had almost leant in to him. Walked close, stayed close. 

Snorting, he discarded the memories, angry at himself for having wished for something that he had tried to put to rest. 

“Where are you going?” Nesta’s words were sharp. The fanciful part of him detected alarm, but Cassian pushed it away. He knew better.

“To sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Again, Nesta moved with that extraordinary speed that Cassian should have accounted for. He had seen her in the sparring ring, had witnessed her move so fast that she was almost a blur. Only he could move that fast. 

A mist-wreathed hand closed around his wrist with a strength that had his heart beating in his mouth and his siphons flaring. “Stay.”

Cassian ran a shaking palm over his face, pressing the heel of it to his eyes, hoping the pain of it would ground him. “I can’t,” he lied.

“You can,” Nesta said shortly, but there was a quiet plea lacing her voice. “You will.”

When Cassian didn’t move, Nesta tugged on his arm, urging him to join her back on the mattress. “Please,” she breathed, and this time Cassian did detect panic, as if Nesta had not bothered to conceal it. “I don’t want to fight with you. You’re the only—”

To Cassian’s dismay, Nesta broke off as her eyes filled with tears. When she spoke, her words were barely audible—small, “I like my life at the moment. I’ve never liked it before.”

Something cracked inside of Cassian, the sound internal and akin to the smashing of china.

“I don’t want anything to change,” Nesta continued. “I don’t want to have to move back to Velaris. I want to stay with you, where I feel safe.”

Her expression cracked. The tight line to her mouth trembled and a frown twisted across her features. A tear slid down her cheek. “I said awful things to you,” she admitted.

“Yes,” Cassian conceded with a sad, tremulous smile, because even now he did not want her to hurt. “And I said awful things to you.”

“I wanted you to leave me alone. You scared me.”

“I know,” he replied. Because he understood what she meant. How even though his blood sang when she was near, he was equal parts terrified. “You scared me, too.”

“I needed to make you leave.”

“I know,” he repeated again. Because he knew that, too. Knew she had purposefully driven him away. She had wanted to hurt and be consumed with trauma. To finally feel nothing. To make sure the those she cared for were safe from her. 

A broken sob had Cassian cupping Nesta’s face before he could help himself. Her skin was unbelievably soft against his calloused palms. He brushed a thumb over the arch of her cheekbone. “Nesta,” he breathed, waiting until she looked at him, until blue and hazel clicked into place. “I want you to stay with me. You never have to move back to Velaris, not if you don’t want to.”

Nesta did not reply. Did not move away. He bowed his head until his forehead was resting against hers, wanting her to know that he was sincere. That he wanted her to stay not because that’s what she needed to hear, but because he didn’t know what life would be like without her in it.

“I like living with you,” he told her again, because he knew somehow that she didn’t believe it. “I don’t want you to leave, either.”

Then he pulled her to him. She didn’t resist, her body pliant as he wrapped his arms around her. Cassian could feel Nesta’s heart, the sound pattering to meet his, as she wound her arms around his bare waist.

Her furled fists rested lightly against his skin, the pressure welcome and wonderful as she finally held him back.

“So, you won’t sleep on the floor?”

Such a small voice. Vulnerable and trusting. A voice she didn’t use with anyone but him.

“No,” Cassian assured her, knowing that staying was something he would never refuse. Something he couldn’t. “I won’t sleep on the floor.”

When he lay on the edge of his pillow closest to hers, Nesta settled beside him. She found his hand beneath the blankets, her fingers threading through his.

The initiated contact had his blood _thrumming,_ and Cassian resisted the urge to pull Nesta back to him and wrap her in his arms. 

An indeterminate amount of time passed. 

Cassian listened to Nesta’s breathing as it became even; the slow, relaxed beat of her heart. The sound of his, thumping in tandem. Watched her eyelids flutter shut and her features soften in the flickering light. Felt how her fingers remained entwined with his.

“We would have crashed and burned. I would have dragged you down.”

Quiet, sleepy words. A confession, really, and Cassian stilled in surprise at the honesty that was not spat or wringing with deadly venom, but level. And if Cassian allowed himself to be rational, he knew that Nesta was right. Despite the thorny, overgrown path they were trampling down, it had all been necessary. Trauma, internal conflicts, self-doubt, complicated relationships… there were so many things that the both of them had needed to face before they could be truly content. What was it Cassian had said to Rhys when his brother had asked about his happiness? _I’m working on it._ He still was, but with Nesta beside him, still holding on tightly to his hand, Cassian found the world a little brighter, despite the shadowy future that lay ahead of them—a shape that had not yet taken form.

So, Cassian allowed a small smile to creep onto his face. “Maybe I’d like to be set alight.”

A soft snort. “That doesn’t mean you should.”

Then, Nesta’s fingers squeezed his. Soft breath travelled across the pillow to caress his cheek. “Goodnight, Cassian.”

He wondered how many times Nesta had actually said his name without being in mortal danger or when she had needed to get his attention. His name sounded intimate on her lips, a whisper of a prayer across the void that he hoped was narrowing between them.

In his mind, Cassian raised her hand again to press a kiss to her knuckles, even as he merely tightened his hold on hers.

It was in that moment of calm that Cassian vowed that he would change Nesta’s mind. That he would spend this gifted time showing Nesta that they might be strung together but that he had chosen her, if she would have him.

In the dwindling silver light, Cassian felt Nesta began to slip into unconscious. Felt her fingers loosen their grip on his, but he held on, and said, “Goodnight, Nesta.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry for the two week delay in getting this chapter uploaded. I had to write the whole of it from scratch and it somehow ended up being a 16k monster so I hope that will make up for the wait :) 
> 
> Only 9 days to ACOSF!!!!! So please no spoilers or conversations you've overheard about the forthcoming book in the comments...
> 
> So much happens in this chapter, but I really hope you like it.

**Chapter 29  
** **Nesta**

Nesta woke to warmth. It wasn’t the sort of heat that you gained from being pressed between blankets and a mattress overnight, but something else—something better— which coated her limbs in the most calming of ways. An additional heartbeat, an additional pulse, an additional breath—all in tandem with hers in a way that was so lulling she almost gave in to the temptation to go back to sleep. Pine and musk wrapped around everything—just as it had when Nesta had been recovering from the kerits attack—with such an intensity that Nesta felt as if she was almost swimming in it; an endless, depthless sea that was not ink black and terrifying but tranquil and blue.

In that dreamy haze between waking and consciousness, Nesta did not quite understand why she felt so undeniably safe. But then she cracked open an eye—spied the unforgiving crystalline rock above her and remembered where she was—and it all made sense. 

Cassian was still asleep and lying on his side, his head resting on the edge of the pillow nearest to her. He was in the same position as he had been when she had closed her eyes the night before, as if he had slept so peacefully that he hadn’t tossed and turned. Only the blankets which had been pushed down to his waist indicated that he had moved, and Nesta’s eyes traced his bare chest, the hair which led down, down, down in a path below his navel. And then there was the black ink of his tattoos, which peeked out behind the hair; lines and shapes that whorled over his tan skin, licking like tantalising flames across his chest and down his biceps.

Nesta wanted to look away but she couldn’t. Instead, she scanned Cassian’s expression which, for once, was wiped entirely clean—relaxed in a way Nesta had never witnessed, even when she’d found him sleeping on the couch in the middle of the night. Nesta supposed he’d always been hounded by nightmares then; his brow was always creased and his expression contorted, as if he were distressed—on the precipice of being thrown into the clutches of something entirely awful.

But now there was a calmness to him. His body was still apart from the slow rise and fall of his chest. Clearly, the previous day’s events and their conversation had left him drained, too—so drained that he fell asleep with little hesitation. Usually, when Nesta was over-tired, falling asleep terrified her. It felt like tumbling down into the inky depths of the Cauldron, but with Cassian’s fingers threaded through hers last night, she had felt grounded and protected. In fact, Nesta could barely remember falling to sleep. All she had known was that she was certain that Cassian would not leave her. That when he had pulled her into his arms—when he had told her that he wanted her to stay with him in Illyria—Nesta had understood that had no intention of creating any more distance between them.

His relief had been palpable when she had pulled him back to bed with her. Nesta hadn’t tried to sense his emotions, they had just channeled into her, a rush that ebbed and flowed, like the tide as it crashed and receded. 

Only when she threaded her fingers through his did that tide begin to still; the waters quiet, the surface nothing but the faintest ripple of glass. 

It was the shared contact, Nesta knew that. She was not naive or stubborn enough to deny that when their skin connected, the world no longer clambered. 

Perhaps that was why Cassian’s wing was draped over her body—an extra blanket of protection that smelt of pine and musk in a layer of sea salt. It was heavy but not in an uncomfortable, suffocating way. It reminded Nesta of her dreams of an arm slung around her hips and the press of a hard body moulded against her back. 

Barely any of the males Nesta had slept with had been given the courtesy of holding her close. Most of them hadn’t even dared to try it. But when she had been too drunk to know what she was doing, she’d sometimes wake bleary-eyed and with a dry, cotton mouth to find limbs gathering her to a warm chest. 

Nesta had never enjoyed it. Had immediately felt trapped. But Cassian’s wing… she liked it _too much_. Enough that she instinctively tried to roll away, escaping not only his touch but their exchanged words from the night before which had started to flood back to her in a rush. Peace gave way to panic, but the tip of that wing—that additional layer that had kept her so grounded and warm—tightened into a curve, stopping her from leaving the bed. From moving one inch farther away from him.

Nesta froze but Cassian remained fast asleep. The movement was instinctive rather than rational. Something which Nesta learnt all too soon when she tried to move again, only to receive the same reaction. And so it continued; whenever she shifted, so did his wing, and only when Nesta turned back on her side to face him did he finally settle. 

So, Nesta was left with nothing but the memories of last night and a very beautiful scar-flecked warrior in close proximity. 

Something which was entirely her fault. 

At least they were no longer holding hands, Nesta thought, as a faint heat rose to her cheeks. Their grasp on one another had clearly fallen away during the night, but on the mattress between them, Cassian’s hand was still outstretched, his palm curled loosely, as if he were still waiting for her fingers to wrap around his. As if it was she who had pulled away rather than him.

The knowledge made her want to lift her hand to trace the dark line of his brow. It was an odd urge, but one she suddenly wanted more than anything, to see him wake up beneath her fingers. As his restful, closed expression gave way to bleary, honeyed eyes…

She knew he would smile. 

The thought made something twist inside of her. Something heady and taut and—

No, Nesta thought fiercely, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. It did no good to think like that. The two of them were puppets controlled by a master who had decided their fate for them—who had snapped and reshaped her bones until she was no longer human. The Cauldron would not win. If there was one thing Nesta was sure of, it was that. 

Yet, it hurt to think of how many females Cassian had done this with… How many females had lain in his bed protected by a precious wing—the thing Cassian held most dearly to him? Nesta knew she had no reason to feel that way. How many males had she woken up with, after all? Yet, Nesta had never felt anything for them. Cassian had lived and lived and lived. He had no doubt loved and adored females all over Prythian. Had broken hearts and had his own broken. He had been on these immortal lands for over five hundred years, whereas she had barely lived a quarter of a century. His experience superseded hers in a way that left her unbearably discomfited. Despite their current close proximity, they were miles apart and it was good to remind herself of that. To allow that thought to haunt her like an unwelcome ghost, pouncing on her with needle-like claws whenever he taunted or flirted or made any move to try and step that little bit closer to her.

So many words had been exchanged between them last night; angry and painful and sad. But all of them had held truth. Nesta had believed everything Cassian had said, not only because he did not often speak so plainly, but because she felt the honesty of his words lining her stomach, amongst the anguish and _terror—_ the latter of which she still did not understand.

And when he had pulled away from her to sleep on the floor, her own pain had stabbed through her. So deep and so fierce that her entire body had _hurt._

Nesta had not expected the panic that began to surge inside of her—the agony that had curled its way around Cassian’s own anguish, the sensation so acute that Nesta could scarcely breathe. She had begged him not to go, had abandoned all of her armour and facade, because she couldn’t bare the thought of him leaving her, just as she couldn’t leave him to die on the battlefield. 

All it had taken was that split moment of Cassian threatening to leave for Nesta to realise just what he meant to her. And that understanding… it had cracked her open, until her guard fell away and only rubble remained. It had left her vulnerable and exposed in a way that she never usually allowed anyone to see.

But she had let him see it.

Everyone had left Nesta in some way during her life, whether it was the cruel kiss of death or her own doing. But not having Cassian with her… it was the one thing Nesta had known with certainty that she could not endure. That she liked her life, despite all of the challenges and the on-going hardship… Because in-between all of that, hope existed, like the first fingers of light as dawn crept across the mountain pass each morning—the light that shone between the pine needles to dapple the sparkling snow. It was the promise of something better. Something _good._ Illyria might be cold, brutal and muddy, but it was also the many startling shades of the unhindered sky and a fresh blanket of snow crunching beneath boots. It was curling up by the fire and reading with Cassian nearby, his hazel eyes flickering in the firelight as he watched her. It was the way Mas lovingly cradled Nesta’s face with her chapped hands, and Roksana’s arms and wings as they clung around Nesta’s legs. It was Cassian’s true smile, unchained and heart-achingly lovely.

The last of which was imprinted into Nesta's memory so fiercely that she could see it when she closed her eyes. 

Yes, there was sadness and suffering and fear, but there was also something Nesta had never felt before. A sense of being content with herself. Of waking up with no dread lining her stomach and the simple pleasure of looking forward to the day ahead.

It was all of those things and more. And Cassian… he was at the centre of it all. He was hub in that cyclical wheel and the spokes were the rest. 

They had both said and done terrible things to one another. Had both been cruel beyond measure. Yet, Cassian had spoken honestly last night. Nesta had known the truth of it. Hadn’t needed to reach out to him with her magic. Had felt it sound like a bell deep inside of her—a sharp call. An awakening. 

_I have never been so fucking captivated by anyone in the whole five hundred years I have been alive._

The memory had her wanting to shudder—at the way Cassian had delivered those words, his voice furious and tortured and wholly unleashed. The thought had the flames Nesta had summoned in the grate rise, and silver flared, illuminating the room in a sudden brightness that had Cassian stirring. 

Even though Nesta wanted to turn away, she remained fixated, watching Cassian as he buried his face into the pillow and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Bleary hazel flickered awake. Shards of gold wrapped in smoky green blinked slowly at her, and Nesta stared as Cassian rose from that state between waking and dreaming. As his conscious slowly surfaced until everything pointed into sharp focus. 

For a moment, everything seemed to pause. It was a beat in which Nesta felt heat spread from her heart up to her throat. She fought the urge to look away—knew it would be in vain because everything inside of her had locked with his—but then embarrassment spiked through her, the sensation sharp and acute. 

  
Cassian’s eyes widened and then his wing was retracting from across her body so fast it was almost as if he had been burned.

“Sorry,” Cassian rasped, his voice still thick with sleep. “You should have pushed me off of you.”

Nesta rolled onto her back so he didn’t catch the way her cheeks had heated pink. She wasn’t sure why she was embarrassed. Perhaps it was because he seemed ashamed for having exposed his wings to her. Or perhaps it was because she could not help but be reminded of the way she had begged him to stay last night. 

“I didn’t want to touch your wing,” she lied, because it had never crossed her mind to shake him off of her. Had wanted the additional touch from him. 

_I want to stay with you, where I feel safe._

Nesta couldn’t look at him. Knew something major had shifted between them. Always bringing them closer and closer, even though she vowed that she would not have another choice taken from her. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cassian glance down at his hand which was still furled towards her on the mattress. But rather than retract it, he extended it outwards, closing the distance between them so he could brush her arm with his fingers. 

The effect was startling, the touch sending lightning forks down her nerves, but she did not allow herself to jump or shake him off. 

Nesta glanced sideways at him before she could stop herself, her body betraying her yet again. It was hard to resist the magnetic pull that always meant she was battling the temptation to drift closer. 

Sometimes she wished that pull would go away. That she could see what it was like without that invisible magic tying them together. Would she still feel the same or would it be like a cord cut loose that left her feeling entirely indifferent?

“Did you sleep well?” Cassian’s voice was a rasp and impossibly deep. It threw her out of her mind.

“Yes.” A one-word answer had seemed safest, but it only led Cassian to arch an eyebrow in surprise. Suddenly, she was scared at what he might say. So, she turned her head to look him directly in the eye and demanded, “Did you?”

“Yes,” he replied slowly, but his head lifted slightly from the pillow in a way that was too inquisitive. 

Quickly, Nesta pressed on, “No nightmares?”

A brief shadow flickered across Cassian’s expression but then a small smile graced his mouth, the left-hand corner of his lips tilting upwards. “No nightmares,” he confirmed. His voice had fallen into something softer—less coarse.

“Does it help? To have someone next to you?”

“It helps to have you next to me,” Cassian corrected. Then his cheeks stained pink, even as he didn’t look away. “I sleep better when I know you’re safe.”

Nesta knew what he meant, but even still she found herself saying, “I’m hardly going to be harmed in the bungalow.”

“No,” Cassian agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to burst into your room in the middle of the night to check you’re still breathing.”

Nesta stilled. Despite the hazy fog of memory from when Nesta had been weaned off alcohol, she remembered the shadow of feet beneath the door in the middle of the night. Usually, it was when she had been suffering from nightmares or shaking so badly that her bones felt as if they were clacking together. When the numbness had given way to a roaring type of pain that she had no option but to endure. 

“But you have anyway,” she supplied.

That colour across Cassian’s cheekbones grew, but his gaze did not stray from her. “Yes.”

Was that why he slept on the couch sometimes, Nesta wondered? Not just because he could look over papers, but because he was closer to her room. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask, but she found herself promising, “I’ll leave my bedroom door open.”

Those eyes shone gold. “Then you’ll feel unsafe.”

Because, of course, he knew about the locks on the doors. Cassian had followed her home to her filthy apartment enough times to know exactly how terrified she was that someone would abduct her in the middle of the night. That had been another reason why she brought males home. It was someone else that would stand in the way of anybody who tried to take her.

Nesta had only been in the bungalow two days before a lock appeared on her bedroom door. She had never used it. Had never felt the need to. But it had comforted her, knowing that it was there.

“You could just stay in my bed,” Cassian suggested, “then we’d both be happy.”

Nesta frowned. “I don’t recall saying that I preferred sleeping with you.”

“Well, I’m an excellent cuddle partner,” Cassian responded with a swift grin that made his eyes twinkle, “if that helps to sway your decision.”

Just the thought of having him that close made Nesta’s skin itch. And the forwardness that wasn’t flirtatious banter… it was all new. Nesta couldn’t decide if it terrified her or thrilled her that Cassian knew exactly who she was and was not running for the hills.

“Or I could stay in your bed,” Cassian continued, oblivious to the battle waging in her mind. “Whatever you prefer. I don’t care.”

Nesta stared at him. His words were so casual, as if they had come to an agreement previously. “I’m not staying in your bed every night,” she told him sharply.

Both eyebrows raised this time. “Why?”

It should have been an easy question to answer, but no words formed in her mind. Probably because the thought of sharing Cassian’s bed each night—knowing that there might be a reprieve from the nightmares disguised as dreams—sounded like bliss. 

Nesta must have been thinking for too long, because Cassian ran his hands over his face, as if he was smoothing away their conversation to pave way for something else. He knew better than to push her. 

Yawning, he stretched his long, substantial limbs and that traitorous blanket slinked lower to his hips. “What time is it?”

Propping herself up on an elbow, Nesta cast a look around. This deep underground, with no windows, there wasn’t an easy way to judge the time. In the time she had been awake, she hadn’t heard anyone moving around. “I don’t know. It feels early.”

They intended to head down to the sparring rings at dawn. Cassian was to oversee the females training and observe their progress, before he and Lorrian spent the rest of the morning inspecting the aerial legion. The fact that nobody had come to wake them for breakfast yet, meant the sun must still be a way from rising. Not that Nesta wanted to eat with any of the Ironcrest nobility, especially not their princeling. She hadn’t had an appetite since they’d arrived, something which she knew Cassian hadn’t failed to notice—

A sharp flare of heat rushed through Nesta. It bloomed inwards, until it channelled through her core and pooled between her legs. For a second, Nesta stilled, equally mortified and confused, but then her mind cleared for rationality to kick in, to realise…

Cassian was staring at her chest with a look that was both hungry and tortured.

“Stop,” Nesta hissed, her expression murderous.

Honeyed eyes snapped up to hers as she spoke, and Nesta noticed that Cassian’s pupils were blown wide, as if they wanted to consume all of her, not just the rare amount of cleavage on show.

There was a pregnant beat that followed—like the slow trip of a heart. It made everything in Nesta clench in anticipation, her whole body turning impossibly taut, like a cord about to be cut loose.

Slowly—infuriatingly—Nesta watched a sheepish grin blossom across Cassian’s face. He had the good sense to rub the back of his neck in a concession of embarrassment, but the movement only made Nesta want to snarl; it emphasised the swell of his bicep and the perfect, hard-cut muscles of his abdomen. Did nothing to quell the heat that continued to throb inside of her and made her want to set him on fire.

“Couldn’t resist,” Cassian supplied in apology. Then, that grin turned rogue and Nesta’s toes wanted to _curl_ , “You look delicious in the morning, Nesta.”

The hoarse laugh that rang around the stone walls when she hurled her pillow at him had mist seeping from Nesta’s fingertips. She stormed towards the bathroom in a bid to find sanctuary—to run away from that sensation that turned over like a clenched fist in her core. 

When she slammed the door shut, Cassian’s voice still travelled through the wood, “Anybody would think you’re trying to seduce me, sweetheart. I know you usually wear high-neck nightgowns!”

* * *

By the time Nesta emerged from the bathroom freshly washed, Cassian was at the foot of the bed and dressed for the sparring ring. A scrap of leather was trapped between his straight teeth as he fixed half of his hair so it was pulled back from his face.

He grinned at her when he caught her looking at him, dropping her a wink that had that heat flaring in her all over again. 

A hiss emitted from Nesta without her bidding it to, the sound so feral that Cassian’s eyes gleamed wicked, before slowly—slowly—they dropped back to her chest...

“I will set you alight,” Nesta snarled in warning, that fateful finger pointing at him, straight at him heart. 

Laughter barked its way out of Cassian’s broad chest. The sound was loud and delighted, and too late, Nesta realised that it was more or less what Cassian had said the evening before.

_Maybe I’d like to be set alight._

Nesta refrained from crossing her arms, knowing it would only emphasise the swell of her breasts. She had always had a fuller chest than her sisters, but had barely thought anything of it until she saw the way males ogled at her. 

“And you think we should share a bed more often?” Nesta snapped. “You can’t keep your eyes to yourself.”

She reached to snatch the hairbrush from him, but Cassian’s hand closed around her wrist and tugged before she even had time to blink. She stumbled towards him and if it was not for the other hand which flew out to steady her, Nesta would have gone careening off of his chest and onto the flagstone floor. 

“I think you’ll find that I am usually very restrained,” Cassian responded once he had righted her, his voice a deep rumble. 

His grip on her was firm but easy enough for Nesta to escape from, but Nesta did not move. 

“What do you want? A medal?” Nesta seethed, furious at him for catching her off guard.

Yet... she did not step away. She had planted her hands on his chest, intending to push herself off of him, but she stopped, waiting for his response. To hear what he would say, even though she had no doubt that he was bracing himself for a quick knee between the legs. 

Silence. No banter. No taunting words.

Just… quiet.

Confused, Nesta glanced up at him to find that Cassian’s mouth had tightened. Lines bracketed his mouth as a muscle feathered in his jaw and his usual playfulness had fallen away into something else—something raw and unfettered. “I can’t help it sometimes,” he said hoarsely, after a too long moment. “You have no idea the effect you have on me, Nesta.”

For once, Nesta found that she did not know what to say.

Clearly taking her silence as stony, Cassian let go of the brush and stepped back. She watched his brows knit together. “Are you still upset with me about last night? Of what we spoke about?”

Nesta looked away. Stared into the hearth—at her flames which danced under her control. A part of her couldn’t believe he was speaking so openly with her. Usually she did not allow for him to broach any subject about their past—of what had been strung between them. 

And even though a part of her wanted to snap at him to stop speaking, she found herself replying crisply, “No.” 

Nesta felt those eyes tunnel into her. Cassian always looked at her as if he saw everything, thorns and all. But did he know that right now she was thinking of Mor? That even though she had clamped down on everything with ice, her stomach was still cramping uncomfortably.

“You’re lying,” Cassian said softly. He stepped closer again, so his chest was almost pressed to her side. He dared to raise a hand to her cheek. A calloused thumb stroked over her skin—just once. The contact made her want to shiver. “I’m prepared to work for it—your forgiveness, Nesta. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll show you that my apology wasn’t just words, if you’ll let me.”

She didn’t know what to say. She was so still that even she couldn’t feel her chest move as she breathed. Even as her entire body pulsed as he had spoken, his words a caress and a promise. Instead, she deflected. “Are you upset with me?”

Still, Nesta did not look at him, but Cassian gently caught the underside of her chin with his fingers, coaxing her to meet his stare.

She let him do it, even though her instinct was to run away, as she always did when things became uncomfortable or too packed with meaning. “No. I haven’t been angry with you since you arrived in Illyria and I realised just how ill you were,” Cassian conceded softly. “When I realised that I had abandoned you and left you to grow sicker.”

Nesta loosed a soft snort as she turned away again, so her front was to the flames. “I’d never have let you help.”

Fingers touched the base of her neck. Cassian had stepped behind her so quickly she had not seen him move. The warmth was what her body craved, even as the heat from her fire should have been more than enough. 

“I should have insisted,” Cassian said, his voice a rumble of regret. Then, his hand fell away with a finality that signalled the end of the discussion as a knock sounded at the door. “It’s time for breakfast.”

* * *

  
Despite the fact that none of the Ironcrest nobility deigned to turn up for breakfast, it was still an affair full of tense conversation.

Cassian had been the utmost gentlemale when they had been shown to the small and dark breakfast room, pulling out Nesta’s chair before she could do it herself. And whilst Nesta knew it was done for the upkeep of their pretence should the servants moving around the room like ghosts report back to the prince or princeling, she appreciated it nonetheless.

Given the presence of others, breakfast was taken with conversation that was too careful to be called enjoyable. It did nothing to set Nesta at ease. Kallon’s continual attack of her and Cassian the night prior had her stomach twisting itself into knots, and Nesta flitted between quietly nudging her scrambled eggs with her fork to sneaking glances towards the doorway when nobody was looking.

But despite Nesta’s worst fears, Kallon did not show and the sword remained nowhere to be seen. The absence of the latter was as much a relief as the first; Nesta had sensed the magic of it as soon as she had walked into dinner the evening prior. Her power had immediately turned over inside of her, pressing through her veins, pushing and pulsing and heating, as if, like Cassian and Lorrian, her magic was answering to something ancient.

Preoccupied with thoughts of the sword and Kallon, it took Nesta a while to separate her own anxiety from the worry lining her stomach. When it became an insistent nag, Nesta looked up sharply to find Cassian studying her. The concern that briefly flickered across his features was enough for Nesta to know that he had clocked that she had barely touched her food since they had arrived at Ironcrest the day before.

It was the same expression that Nesta had experienced for months when she refused to eat more than enough to get her through the day—sometimes less.

Leaning across the table, Cassian spooned some fruit in a bowl and ladled it with oats and a dusky pink yoghurt. He silently slid the bowl towards her, all the while continuing to hold conversation with Lorrian about the morning’s observation of the aerial fleet. When he handed her a spoon, their eyes briefly connected enough for Nesta to catch the crooked smile that tugged at his lips. It was the smile that said; _Eat, Nesta. Please._

So she did, even though it took effort. Did not even bat an eyelid as Cassian took her plate and polished off her eggs on toast. As he beckoned politely to one of the servants and murmured in a voice that was too low even for her Fae ears.

When the servant came back with a steaming mug of chai, Nesta took the handle with surprise. “Thank you,” she told the servant quietly, trying to hide just how startled she was. 

Still, Cassian paid her little attention, but Frawley studied Nesta over her own mug of steaming coffee with a raised eyebrow.

* * *

A half hour later, the four of them stepped out of the front door of Lord Marsh’s residence and onto the rocky plateau that served as a courtyard. Flanked either side by tall pine trees, the courtyard was also encased on the left by a wing of the house, made up of tall, imposing windows and stone wall. To the far-right, between the trees, the ledge gave way to staggered, uneven steps lined with the vibrant colours of moss and lichen. The staircase which climbed down treacherously between the numerous natural ledges in the rock looked like a dangerous and formidable path, although Nesta supposed most Illyrian’s flew up the mountain rather than use the steps—apart from those with clipped or injured wings.

For the first time since they had arrived, Nesta took a moment to look out at the view: 

The domineering mountain of crystalline rock that she was standing upon formed the right wall of the pass—a harsh, unforgiving facade, full of natural plateaus that housed the nobility, starting from the lush green of the valley floor all the way up to Lord Marsh’s residence, as if to indicate that he sat at the top of the chain not just figuratively but literally, too. 

Below her, the crease of the mountain pass could just be spied between a break in the clouds, which curled halfway around the belly of the cliff-face. Straight ahead, a series of towering monoliths peaked in green rose out of the clouds like formidable towers, climbing so high that Nesta could barely see the tops. 

Never before had Nesta seen an inhabited area that was quite so beautiful—which was ironic, given that the Ironcrest camp was notoriously cruel and harsh, set in its traditional ways which persecuted the weak and praised those with blood strong with the Killing Power. Whilst Windhaven looked as if it had encroached itself onto nature, Ironcrest looked as if it were _a part of it._ As if the camp and nature were almost one.

“Ready to fly?”

Turning, Nesta found Cassian behind her. A faint smile ghosted his face, his expression the same one he wore whenever he took her somewhere new. “The sparring rings are over there,” he told her with a jerk of his chin, as he refashioned his hair into a tight flying knot.

Nesta blinked, unsure she had heard him correctly. The fierce wind battered at her body, at her hair, until strands escaped from her braid and attempted to ripple away. “Atop the monoliths?”

That smile widened into something of a challenge and Nesta refrained from baring her teeth at him. The monoliths were surely a few thousand metres from the floor of the mountain pass, if not more. Usually, Nesta didn’t give a second thought to steep drops when she was with Cassian, but the towers looked far too precarious, especially without the security of wings. Without Sala—

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure your safe.” Cassian grinned, but although his canines flashed, Nesta could tell that he was goading her to smooth over her apprehension. 

He held out a hand to her, silently asking her to step closer to him. For a moment, Nesta hesitated, but then she grasped his calloused fingers with hers. 

Once they had been up in the sky for a minute or so, Cassian warned, “The air can get thin up there. If you find that you’re finding it hard to breathe, I can take you back down.”

Above the clouds, they were submerged in the magenta and burnt orange of dawn. The colours lined the clouds in a glow that felt as if it would be warm to touch, even though Nesta knew from the brisk wind atop the mountain that it was all an illusion.

Cassian had thrown a shield around them as soon as he had sprung into the open air with her in his arms, and for a moment, apart from steady beat of Cassian’s wings as they tracked their way through the sky, everything seemed impossibly still and calm. Beautiful.

Twisting her head begrudgingly—not wanting to take her eyes off of the view for one-second—Nesta frowned. “Thin?”

Catching an up current with a smoothness that indicated years of traversing the skies, Cassian glanced down at her. “Because we’re so high up, it can make it hard to breathe. Do you remember me saying that Ironcrest produces the best warriors?”

When Nesta murmured an affirmative, Cassian continued. “Well, that’s not just because of they tend to produce warriors with the most Killing Power. Training at altitude improves endurance and overall performance. It means they can fight for long durations of time without tiring. Ironcrest is situated higher than any of the other camps. Warriors from the other camps do train at altitude, but those born in Ironcrest… just living here—breathing the thinner air—means that they have an advantage in war.”

It was dangerous, Nesta thought. So dangerous that Ironcrest was the strongest of the war camps, especially given that those in power were so opposed to the ruling of their High Lord. 

They all knew what power could mean in the wrong hands.

The thought of more destruction and death made Nesta’s blood run cold, but she pushed away the sensation with the rush of her magic through her veins. It had become a habit of hers to command it sometimes—to check it was still there and stronger than ever.

“Will you need me to demonstrate today?” Nesta asked.

“I’ll mainly be overseeing the session,” Cassian replied. His expression had darkened, as if he was preparing himself for a battle of the wills. “Then, Lorrian and I will observe the forces, particularly the aerial fleet.”

Together they had been climbing the skies, higher and higher until the top of the monolith came into sharp focus. Atop the summit of green which ran over the lip of the peak, Nesta could see four huge sparring rings carved into the rock. Black dots grew into fae… until Nesta could spy weapons in hands and the glint of siphons in the pinks of dawn. 

Nesta hadn’t been sure what was expected of her when Cassian had asked whether she’d like to watch the females train. He had only warned her that the turnout would be far more dire than Windhaven’s original turnout figures. But word had travelled since Mas had lit the pyre all those weeks ago, and more and more females across the Illyrian camps had been turning up at dawn with the intention of learning self-defence. The males were not happy about it, especially the Ironcrest’s senior war-lord, Lord Rufous. 

“Would you want to demonstrate?”

Cassian’s question pulled her focus away from the approaching ground. There was barely a jolt as Cassian landed near the edge of the monolith adjacent to the mountain wall across the pass. It positioned them far away from the midst of the rings that the four of them would have a little more time before they were thrown to the wolves. 

A moment to speak without being overheard. 

“I want to help,” Nesta replied, as Cassian set her onto her feet. What Nesta had thought to be grass turned out to be moss, the greenery springy and soft beneath her fighting boots. If it hadn’t been so cold, Nesta would have had the absurd urge to remove her knee-high boots and plunge her bare feet into it—to know what it felt like between her toes. “Until Mas and the others are competent enough, anyway.”

Cassian’s smile was soft. “Mas?”

“I’m not Illyrian. The females need to see examples led by one of their own. Not a High Fae.” She raised her chin, daring him to contradict her. “Don’t you agree?”

“I do,” Cassian admitted. “But I also think it important that a High Fae is there, too.”

Nesta frowned. “Why?”

“It shows that High Fae care about the Illyrian’s. That the Night Court are fighting for Illyrian’s to have better lives.”

“I do care about them,” Nesta said fiercely.

“I know you do, Nesta,” Cassian conceded softly. “Nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing you care for my race.”

Grazing his fingertips over her cheek, Nesta watched a small smile tug at his mouth. For some reason, it came across as sad. Nesta did not know if the initiated contact was for show or because he wanted to. There was a lot Nesta wasn’t sure of after last night. 

“If you find it hard to breathe, I’ll take you back down,” he said, his hand falling away.

Nesta studied him for a minute. When had he began to think of her well-being in every scenario, Nesta wondered? She couldn’t remember, but it seemed like it had been that way for a very long time now. How had she truly missed the gravity of that? What that meant?

She opened her mouth to speak, but then Lorrian and Frawley were there. “This is going to be a shit show,” Lorrian cursed, his expression hard. “I barely saw any females.”

“If a lot of the females wings have been clipped, how do they get up here?” Nesta asked curiously. 

“They have someone fly them up or they don’t come at all,” Frawley replied grimly. 

“Isn’t there a sparring ring down in the mountain pass?” Nesta enquired, even though she already anticipated what the answer would be. 

“Ironcrest has never needed to have rings down there before. If someone can’t fly, they aren’t perceived a worthy of training,” Cassian responded, his expression tight.

“And the females that can fly can rarely carry others,” Lorrian added. “It takes sheer strength to do that, most of which the females don’t have. Not when they have been raised as seamstresses or limited to the laundry rooms and kitchens.”

“But surely the girls shouldn’t have their wings clipped,” Nesta said. “I thought wings were only clipped when females had their first bleeding.”

“It’s against the law to clip wings,” Cassian said darkly. “It shouldn’t be happening at all, but Azriel’s spies have fed rumours that girls wings are getting cut well before their first bleeding.”

“It’s sacrilege,” Lorrian spat. “It’s bad enough that they practice it when the females reach maturity, but to take that away from younglings?” He broke off with a shake of his head. “It’s the greatest sin.”

Frawley tilted her head at Cassian. “If Nesta and I call Sala and Caer, we can fly down to the mountain pass and take a look for ourselves. We can see whether the rumours are true. I can see if any fresh injuries need healing.”

For a moment, Nesta thought Cassian would disagree. His hazel eyes rested on Nesta and she could almost see the wheels of his mind turning as he contemplated the harm that might come to her. At what would happen if her magic died if her trauma reared its ugly head and she was left unable to defend herself.

But Nesta also knew that he would let her go if she wanted. He would not deny her the chance to defend herself. 

“That could be useful,” Cassian admitted. “Go after the girls training whilst Lorrian and I are overseeing the rest of the units.” He looked to Frawley. “Call the manticores,” he ordered, and then he strode off towards the rings.  
  


* * *

  
In the end, the girls training was a sombre, tense affair that, to Nesta’s surprise, didn’t end with Cassian tossing the war-lord off the monolith. Twenty females had turned up in total—thanks to Lorrian flying down to the bottom of the monolith to ferry up any willing participants—and from the fury and surprise on Lord Rufous face, Nesta could tell that the crowd was not a regular occurrence. 

The group was made up of a mixture of both widows and orphans, and the females had spent the majority of their time sneaking glances at Nesta. The rest was made up of some half-hearted attempts at self-defence, something which improved dramatically when Cassian claimed the session for himself and roped Nesta into demonstrating a few basic techniques.

When he allowed Nesta to flip him into the mud, every single one of the females eyes had turned as round as saucers, but their backs had straightened, and when Lorrian and Cassian began correcting stances and holds, the females seemed to listen. 

By the end of the session, Rufous was near beetroot with rage. 

That should have been enough to put Nesta in a good mood, but she had noticed the scars down so many of the females wings—far more than in Windhaven—and, as Lorrian had reported, a few on girls that could not have yet reached their first bleeding. 

When the session was over, Frawley unfolded the arms that had been crossed firmly over her chest and said crisply, “Time to go.”

Nesta followed Frawley’s retreating back, but before she could get very far, Cassian called her name.

When she turned, she found Cassian striding around the outskirts of the muddy ring towards her. He held up a hand to wave at Frawley, who continued to walk in a swish of smoky skirts. 

He drew up short beside her, his body far closer than he usually allowed. Nesta supposed if they were together in that way, the proximity would be as natural as breathing.

Nesta dipped her chin. “Frawley called for she and Caer during the session. She says they should arrive soon.”

“I see,” Cassian replied, his voice slightly strained. Nesta cocked her head at him, urging him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Instead, he slowly reached up to cup her face with one hand, his rough callouses scraping lightly over her cheek. That heat bloomed again and Nesta clamped down hard on her emotions, fortifying those walls of ice so he could not feel how he affected her.

When he leant forward, Nesta’s heart started to pound so hard she could hear it in her ears. Another display—to show the beady eyed Illyrian’s that she was off limits. But his mouth did not end up on hers. Instead, he smiled, as if she had said something he had found amusing. “Don’t let them leave your side.” 

The old Nesta would have been outraged at the words and insinuation that she was not to be trusted alone, but she knew that this wasn’t what this was. Cassian had made it perfectly clear on multiple occasions that he didn’t trust the Ironcrest clan, yet… he was giving Nesta her freedom, even though it looked as if it cost him.

So, she lifted her chin and held his gaze. “I will,” she promised, before she continued to follow Frawley to one of the monolith’s corners. 

“I'm sending thanks to Oya and all things Cauldron that we are able to escape,” Frawley muttered as Nesta came up beside her. The witch cast a sideways glance at her friend. “Do I want to know what the bat just said to you?” 

Emitting a soft snort, Nesta dismissed the sensation of Cassian’s hand on her cheek. “To stay by your side.”

Frawley’s only response was a noise that sounded like _humph._ “Let’s go flying first,” the witch clipped as they reached the spot they had landed an hour earlier. “Cauldron forbid, I could do with tasting the skies so we can get a reprieve of this wretched place. Plus,” she added wistfully, “the other side of the mountain is beautiful. It makes visiting here worth it.”

Overhead, two huge figures cast shadows as large as rainclouds as Sala and Caer swooped down on wide-spread leathery wings that beat so loudly the entire monolith seemed to shudder.

Paws thudded onto the ground and then Sala’s head was thrust so hard into Nesta’s stomach that she had to take a step backwards to steady herself.

“It’s odd that somewhere so beautiful can be tainted by the cruelty of its leaders,” Nesta mused as she bent down to greet Sala, pressing her forehead to the manticore’s. It was a gesture Nesta had always seen Frawley do with Caer, and now Nesta had her own manticore, she found herself doing the same, as if something deep inside of her knew that it was the manticores language—a greeting of a loved one.

“Hmm,” was all Frawley replied as she mounted Caer. “Come on, lets go.” 

And then, without looking back at Nesta to check to see whether she was ready, Caer bounded off the rock and into the open air. 

* * *

Ironcrest was positioned at the northern most tip of Prythian, and as Sala swooped down below the clouds, Nesta spied the curve of the sea in the distance as it wrapped around the land; the deep, dark blue interspersed with the odd white of the surf as the waves crashed against rock.

Together, she and Frawley finally caught a downwind in the pastel skies, traversing the mountain’s side before they dropped into the forest that curved around the foot of the mountain. The forest smelt of damp, rich soil, resin and something acidic and bitter—the scent of orange peel—and Nesta watched the witch tilt her head up to the sky and breathe in the air as if she had expected to arrive home.

For a few minutes, the two of them walked in silence, the manticores firmly at their sides, the beasts large paws thudding on the earth, until eventually, they came out at a large clearing. 

Frawley sat down unceremoniously onto a sloping stretch of rock. Nesta watched the witch stretch out her short legs, those grey, misty skirts pooling over the stone. 

After prowling along the tree-line for a few paces, Caer came to Frawley’s side at her command and lay down onto his belly. Nesta watched the manticore stare intently between the trees, his ears flicking backwards and forwards, his senses no doubt alive from the sounds of the forest and the prey lurking within.

“I don’t bite,” Frawley drawled when Nesta continued to watch her. 

The witch had her eyes closed, her face tilted upwards to the rare bit of sun that shone between the low hanging clouds, but Nesta had the suspicion that Caer was seeing for her—that or her ice blue eye could still focus even when her eyelid was shut.

“I thought we were going to walk the camp,” Nesta replied, as she came to sit beside Frawley on a neighbouring rock. Her leathers creaked softly, the material supple as she moved. 

“We are,” Frawley responded simply, “but I needed to calm down before I witness just how many more of the females wings are clipped.”

“You seemed so…calm,” Nesta said with a frown. 

Frawley snorted sharply. “My long years on this continent in such close proximity to the Illyrians has taught me the art of feigning indifference, Nesta Archeron. Your General is particularly good at it. If you react, they win.”

Nesta’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She knew her fury burned too hot. Even now, she could not always control her fire. But what she chose to say was, “He’s not mine.”

“Is he not?” Frawley challenged, cracking open an eye to witness how Nesta’s features had hardened.

“You look like you want to murder someone,” Frawley commented brusquely. “Please tell me it’s Kallon rather than me. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, given the things he said yesterday.”

Nesta did not know how much Frawley and Lorrian had known about her past. She imagined there had been rumours… but Nesta wasn’t sure how in-the-loop the couple were, especially given they shunned Illyrian society for the most part. And even Illyrians weren’t ones to gossip, even when the information was about their General.

“If I had my way, he’d already be dead,” Nesta replied tartly.

“That makes four of us,” Frawley agreed with a bark of laughter. “I had to freeze Lorrian in place last night. I thought he was going to rip Kallon’s head off. And that would have been nothing in comparison to the death I saw in Cassian’s eyes.”

“Not,” Frawley mused, “that any of us would have needed to do anything. You are more than equipped to handle that piece of filth by yourself.”

Nesta let out a harsh sound of agreement. “I was very restrained.”

“I could tell,” Frawley commented, her tone suggesting there was a lot unsaid. “I was begrudgingly prepared to bring him back to life when I saw your magic start to churn.” Her lips twitched upwards then. “The whip of fire was a nice touch. Where did you get your inspiration?”

“It just happens,” Nesta replied shortly, because she couldn’t explain how her magic had bent to her will when Nesta didn’t even know what her will _was._ She supposed that’s what it meant to have magic that was a very part of who you were. It acted to both your conscious and subconscious mind.

“It was magnificent,” Frawley told Nesta. “Truly. I’ll replay the scene over and over whenever I wish to relieve boredom.”

Despite herself, Nesta found her lips twitching. 

“Is that necklace a Solstice gift?” Frawley asked, curiosity filling her voice. 

The necklace in question was tucked well beneath Nesta’s leathers, but Nesta knew better than to think that Frawley’s eyes weren’t capable of penetrating through material.

Trying to battle away the scowl that wanted to flash across her expression, Nesta said stiffly, “No.”

Startlingly white eyebrows rose towards Frawley’s hairline. “Do you know where Pyrite comes from?”

“Rock,” Nesta clipped, not wanting to continue the conversation any further.

But, unsurprisingly, Frawley carried on, “It comes from Ramiel’s monolith. That’s sacred stone you’re wearing there. It’s extremely rare.”

“So I’ve been told,” Nesta responded flatly, not wanting to remember the way in which Cassian had presented her the necklace as if he were facing an opponent on the battlefield. 

Frawley was not normally one to pry and Nesta was irritated that the witch had taken upon herself to comment.

“It’s special,” Frawley explained pointedly, ignoring Nesta’s blatant desire to end the discussion, “because pyrite from Ramiel cannot be worn by the one who purchased it. It can only be gifted to someone else, and for its protective properties to work, a sacrifice must be made. Magic is balance, remember?”

Nesta’s eyes whipped to Frawley at that. “Sacrifice?” she asked.

Frawley waved a hand. “A few drops of magical blood. Gifting pyrite to someone is a blood-sworn promise to protect them. It means Cassian has gifted you with a drop of his protective power.”

Nesta clamped her lips into a thin line. “I don’t need to be protected.”

“Everyone needs to be protected, Nesta Archeron. You think just because I’m a witch that I will turn down help from my husband should I need it? From anyone? Even somebody as powerful as Cassian would not turn down protection from someone else. In Illyria, it is a great honour for someone to part with a drop of their power for you. It is hard to protect and defend simultaneously; one is usually sacrificed for the other. If you were not to see someone come up behind you, the stone would take action to protect you. It would only work to a certain extent, of course. But it usually grants the wearer more time to act.”

It took the words a moment to sink in. It seemed that Cassian had not told Nesta the whole truth about the necklace. Had probably thought Nesta would have got up and left in the middle of the night, terrified of its significance if he had.

Struggling to keep her expression blank, Nesta asked, “Will it make Cassian weaker?”

Another wave of Frawley’s long-fingered hand. “Cassian’s power is so vast it will be a drop in the ocean. Although,” the witch mused, “I have a feeling he would give you a lot more if he thought he could get away with it. Not that you desperately need it, given the enormity of what you can do.”

_I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re not wearing it._

Nesta fought back a shiver at the memory of Cassian telling her not to take the necklace off the night before. And somehow, she knew Frawley was right. Knew that everything was changing at the same time nothing was changing at all.

“Did you two fight last night?”

Nesta’s head snapped to Frawley’s so quickly her neck cricked. “No.”

Frawley cackled as she briefly ruffled Caer’s mane, before the manticore stood and slunk off into the clearing, disappearing into the trees. “So, yes?”

“Perhaps Cassian is right,” Nesta warned shortly as she rubbed the back of her sore, burning neck. “You are a nosy, interfering witch.”

That cackle quickly turned serious. “I’m not usually one to pry, but for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Cassian look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

“Stop it—” Nesta started to warn the witch.

“I have known him since the war—did you know that?” Frawley interrupted. “Cassian has always been a regular visitor to me and Lorrian. Never has he brought anyone with him. Never have we met another female or heard about one.”

“I’ve been forced to live with him,” Nesta gritted out, resisting the urge to clench her fists. “It is not the same.”

“If you think Cassian was forced to live with you, Nesta, you are sorely mistaken.”

“My sister—”

“—has very little to do with his desire to see you happy.”

Everything screamed in Nesta to run away. Even Sala had gotten to her feet with a low growl, but something in Nesta tugged—an awareness, a reminder that she had vowed to change. So, Nesta stayed put even though it hurt her to do so, glaring at the tree-line as Sala disappeared between them, no doubt to join Caer. 

“It’s instinctual,” was all she said eventually.

“It’s instinctual to look after anyone we care about,” Frawley replied. 

That scowl deepened. “That’s not what I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Frawley interrupted, but her voice was not harsh, rather understanding. 

“There comes a time in one’s life,” Frawley told Nesta, her ice blue eye glowing with sincerity, “that we have to put some things aside to pave way for the new. There is always choice. And sometimes it does no good to make a choice that will only serve to make us unhappy. It took me a long time to realise that—and it’s fine to have that time—but I wish someone had told me that the risk was the greatest reward. That deep inside, I always knew what was right and what was stubborn will, so I wish to tell you the same, in case it is of help.”

Then, Frawley stood, slapping her palms together to rid themselves of stone and dirt. Atop the rock, she looked the most _other_ Nesta had ever seen her: her hair billowing behind her; those white, fierce eyebrows framing piercing eyes of blue and brown; her skirts roiling around her legs as if they were made of smoke. “Now, let’s see if our little shadow can tell us why this forest stinks of dark magic,” Frawley said.

Nesta frowned in confusion, but then, between the trees, flanked between the manticores was a figure swathed in a heavy black cloak. 

There was something in the way the figure moved that told Nesta that it was a female. And from the casual prowl of Sala and Caer, Nesta could tell that whoever was hiding behind the material had not put up a fight.

Lowering her emotional shields, Nesta cast out her magic, spearing it through the clearing until she felt fear and desperation at the back of her throat. It was accompanied with a scent that was familiar yet…different. Altered somehow—feminine. Snowdrops and crisp winter air laced with pine resin.

Frawley, who was perhaps the most relaxed and lethal Nesta had ever seen her, casually flicked a hand. A gust of wind whooshed through the clearing, throwing the hood of the dark cloak back to reveal—Maya.

“I thought it was you,” Frawley clipped brusquely. “You’ve been following us since we left the monolith.”

To Nesta’s surprise, the twin did not cower or withdraw a weapon. Instead, she kept her back straight and her chin held high. But her feet… they were planted in fighting stance, and her wings were spread slightly, as if Maya were ready to take flight at a second’s notice. Cassian was always reiterating to Nesta that it was not only important to know how to fight, but to scope out a potential opponent from their posture, and Maya—she could use a weapon, Nesta was sure of it. 

Even so, Maya was scared. Nesta could hear the pounding of the twin’s heart. It boomed in Nesta’s ears until she raised her shields again, and then, as if someone had clicked their fingers, the sound stopped. 

“What is a blessed twin doing following us around when they are supposed to be working at the beck and call of their master?” Frawley mused drily, cocking her head so her white hair swished. 

Frawley swiftly stepped off of the rock and onto the forest floor with a grace that was undoubtedly feline.

To Maya’s credit, she did not flinch. She only drew up taller, her hand falling into the folds of her cloak, to curl around the pommel of what was undoubtedly a weapon.

“Come Caer,” Frawley called, and the manticore sloped over to the witch’s side, leaning his huge body against her legs as she patted him. “Call Sala off, Nesta. Maya’s not here to harm us.” 

Frawley cocked her head again at the twin, as if she were still a puzzle the witch was trying to figure out. “Are you?” she insisted.

For a moment, Maya did not say anything. Then her eyes darted to Nesta, where Sala had sat on her haunches by Nesta’s feet. 

“Am I right in thinking that something wrong is happening in this forest?” Frawley pressed on, her voice softer now. “I sensed it the moment we arrived yesterday.”

Nesta’s head snapped to Frawley’s. “What do you mean?”

Frawley’s fingers closed around Nesta’s arm. “Listen,” the witch urged. “Listen with your magic. What does it feel like, Nesta?”

For a moment, Nesta only frowned at the witch, but when Frawley raised her eyebrows in encouragement, Nesta closed her eyes, focussing on that magic within her to reach out its tendrils of mist to taste the air—

Nesta recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Now Nesta was looking for it, the air felt wrong. It was thicker, like oil, and there was a tang at the back of Nesta’s mouth that left a sour taste that was almost… rotting. It made Nesta want to gag—to rinse her mouth out with water and run very far away.

“You either have a death wish or you thought the outcome worth the risk, Maya,” Frawley urged, her eyes glinting. “I’m curious to find out which one, although I already suspect that it is the latter.”

“They say you are the defender of the females,” Maya blurted to Nesta, her voice whipping around the clearing. “That you brought a widow back to life. That you healed her wings. Is that true?”

Nesta raised her chin. “Yes,” she said simply. 

“Girls have been going missing,” Maya said, her hands wringing in front of her. “Mostly orphans from the widows camps—those that have nobody to account for them. But two young girls—Ailie and Samra—disappeared two weeks ago. They were shadow servants in the keep, assisting the cook and the laundress. I am watched all of the time and I do not get to see them often—once a week if I am lucky. Much of the time, if Marsh is displeased with me, he will withhold them from me for a month.”

The breath left Nesta in a whoosh and her heart clenched as she suddenly understood. “They are your daughters,” she breathed.

Nesta could not bring herself to ask if Marsh was the father. She had a feeling she did not want to know.

“Yes,” Maya replied with a dip of her head, but her brow twisted and her chin wobbled as if it were taking everything in her to not cry. “When I heard you were visiting—I—well, I have been waiting for a moment to speak with you alone so I could ask for your help. Rumours have it that the girls are taken to a cave in the back of the mountain. It’s shielded with magic to the untrained eye, but I know where it is. I can take you there.” Maya broke off but her hands continued to wring in front of her. “Please—”

The twin stopped as Nesta abruptly strode across the clearing, until she was close enough to still Maya’s moving hands. Already Nesta had cast out an emotion to soothe away the sickening worry that was consuming the female, but that panic still roiled, like a relentless, churning wave.

Nesta squeezed the female’s fingers and looked directly into the amber eyes, which glittered with unshed tears. “We will help you,” she promised. “Show us where the girls are being kept.”

* * *

  
  
Maya led them back through the low hanging clouds and up into the skies on swift wings, following the curve of the mountain until they dropped back down into a thick cluster of pine trees.

Ahead of them, the air rippled, as if the ferocious wind was flowing against an invisible barrier.

“It’s through there,” Maya said quietly, her voice shaking as she tucked her wings in tight. She reached inside her cloak and withdrew a saber with a soft shriek of steel. “I couldn’t figure out a way to get through the magic, but there are usually a dozen or so sentries.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Frawley clipped brusquely. “Shields are a speciality of mine.”

“Who commands them?” Nesta asked, as together, the females crept through the trees towards some large boulders that jutted out from the mountain cliff, 

Puffs of smoke curled around Frawley’s upheld palms.After a moment, she beckoned to Maya. “Do the honours, will you?” she asked the twin. “Your steel should cut right through.”

Maya’s blade silently sliced through the rippling shield as if it were made of nothing but fabric. The wind immediately plunged through the opening and the rip in the shield took the form of the sail of a ship as it blossomed in the breeze. 

Together, sheltered by the huge boulder the three of them were hidden behind, they peered through the fractured shield to find a wide clearing centred around a large campfire. 

A few armed sentries wearing fighting leathers and a band of blue fabric around their left arms milled about the fire. Beyond that, against the mountain wall, a huge, gaping opening led to the mouth of a cave, flanked on each side by four sentries. The inside was so dark that even Nesta’s Fae eyes couldn’t spy what was beyond it. And when she reached out with her magic, she sensed nothing but hollowed out emptiness that tasted like despair and a lack of hope.

All three of them shrank back as cruel laughter came from the dark and three sentries emerged dragging a young girl between them. 

The strangled sound that came from Maya was so tormented that Nesta knew it was one of her girls. Nesta reached blindly for Maya’s spare hand—the one that was not holding the saber—and squeezed.

“That’s my Ailie,” Maya croaked with horror, her eyes not leaving the poor girl who was being pulled across the clearing. Nesta scented the sea salt of tears on the wind. “That’s my Ailie—”

Frawley grasped at Maya’s clothing as the female launched herself forward, hauling her back behind the shelter of their rock. “We will get her for you, but we need to think, we can’t just go charging in without a plan,” the witch said.

But Nesta could not tear her eyes from the group of guards who now had Ailie pinned to the ground, her bruised face buried in the dirt. Her skirts were pulled up over her waist and the males were laughing as the stockiest of them began to unbutton his pants. 

The scent of his arousal hit Nesta’s nose on the ripping wind and she wanted to gag. It smelt like a festering wound. Like the promise of death. And Nesta’s power… it started to roar, gushing through her veins as anger swelled inside of her. Silver mist eddied around her hands… her arms, but she pushed it back down, urging it to wait—

Nesta stepped out into the clearing before Frawley could stop her. Because Maya’s daughter wasn’t even fighting. She just lay limp and motionless, as if she had already been used to sate the males pleasure enough times to learn that fighting back was futile. Her clothes were torn and tattered—streaked in mud and grime—and her hair was a tangle of ebony around her face. And those eyes… they held that dead, terrifying quality Nesta had seen mirrored in her own. The girl’s mind transporting her far, far away—anything to escape the horror of what was happening to her. 

“Get your hands off of her.”

Crisp, forceful words snapped around the clearing—into the alcove and the cave set deep into the mountain—that gaping, dark hole that yawned lazily like an open mouth.

The guards snapped to attention. The largest male paused from undoing the last button on his pants, his hazel eyes consumed with a greedy lust which made them almost sooty.

Those muddy eyes raked over Nesta’s body—over the leathers and the longsword strapped down her spine which Cassian had insisted she wear before they left Marsh’s stronghold. The cruel, crooked smile that spread across the male’s face told Nesta that he saw her slight body and lack of wings as a concession of defeat. To him, she was mere prey and he the predator. But he did not know Nesta. Did not know what she was capable of doing or the magic waiting to strike at her fingertips. Of the vow she had made to herself when she rendered herself new and old.

"Well, look at that, a pretty female has stumbled through Prince Kallon’s shield, _kalalakihan_ ,” the male sneered, the Illyrian word for _warriors_ rolling off his tongue. “Have you come to join the party?”

Malicious, thirsty laughter bounced off stone and bark, but Nesta did not let the males intimidate her. Did not allow her fists to clench at her sides, even though she wanted… 

Nesta wanted to kill them, she realised. She wanted to rip their hearts from their chest and set them alight. She wanted to end the males in a spray of blood and gore for hurting defenceless girls. She wanted to watch the light fade from their eyes and savour it as they were lost to the world and the afterlife beyond it. 

Only a few days ago, Nesta had told herself that she didn’t want to be a killer, not if she didn’t have to be. But whilst taking the lives of these males might ruin another part of her soul, Nesta knew the trauma those males had inflicted on Ailie and no doubt the rest of the girls deserved justice. 

So, Nesta did not balk or flinch. She only straightened and when she spoke, her voice burned cold, “It does not look like a party for the girl you are abusing. Let her go.”

The males laughed. The sound grated over Nesta’s skin and the males emotions… they were enjoying this. She was another game to them. Another female to trap and abuse.

Stepping forward, Nesta did not bother to unsheathe her longsword. She knew that if Cassian was here he would be snarling at her in fury. Reaching inside of her Nesta ran a figurative finger down that twisted bond… the bond that was clamped closed by her ice, but which she could use to summon him if needed. 

“No wings, no entry,” one of the males snarled at Nesta as she took a step forwards, readying his spear with a movement that told Nesta that the weapon was so familiar to him it was an extension of himself. The action was not unlike the ripple of water, smooth and unwavering, indicating that more would come if she did not stop.

“She’s High Fae,” another sentry commented, his eyes darkening as his gaze raked over Nesta’s figure clad in her tight-fitting leathers. “I’d like to show her a good time. Stop her looking down on us Illyrian’s—”

But the large, stocky male who had been about to abuse Ailie threw up a hand and the sentry stopped speaking. 

Slowly, as if he had all of the time in the world, he lifted his knee from the Ailie’s back. The girl scurried back against the rock as best she could with her wrists bound. Her wings were already twisted and long-dried blood stained her legs. Her eyes had a hollow quality Nesta understood too well—trauma already buried deep, its talons clutching fierce enough to leave a wound that would never heal.

“I bet you like fucking, don’t you?” the largest sneered at Nesta. “Do—”

“She’s the General’s plaything.”

The words burst from one of the sentries flanking the foot of the cave. When Nesta looked at him, recognition flickered through her. He was from Windhaven—he was one of the bastards who had gone missing. Nesta had seen him before around the camp. He had lighter hair than most other Illyrian’s, but only by a shade—the deepest, darkest chocolate.

His eyes were wide as her gaze settled on his, as if he were shocked that he had spoken. And his emotions—the emotions that wound themselves into Nesta’s gut without her calling to them—they tasted of regret and fear and panic, as if he knew he had made a mistake and that Nesta was far more dangerous than any of the other males realised.

“You will find I am nobody’s plaything,” Nesta said coldly, lifting her chin in steely determination. Her heart beat wildly in her chest but she pushed the sensation down. Made her voice as icy as the snow ruffled peaks of the mountains. Reaching inside of her, she willed Sala to come to her side. Hoped that Frawley would know to come with Caer. “And I am more powerful than any of you.” 

Staring directly at the bastard, Nesta made sure that silver slid behind her eyes, like a serpent uncoiling through her body, readying to strike. “You should know that, given that you have witnessed what I can do.”

The bastard paled so dramatically that it was almost as if his tan skin had been leeched of life. He clearly hadn't thought she would recognise him. In his eyes, he was a lowly bastard, not worth recognition or a second thought. 

“She’s—she’s a witch,” the bastard stammered, taking a step backwards. His words stumbled, and with it, that tough facade crumbled away until it was nothing. 

His back hit the tall, crystalline stone with a thump and a scrape of steel.

“She is not a witch.” Nesta did not turn but Frawley was suddenly beside her in a swirl of smoke. And next to her… Maya, armed with that saber, the steel of which arced into a lethal curve. “And she is also not alone. I’d think very carefully before you approach any of us or lay another hand on that innocent girl.”

With her guards down—with that net cast out across the clearing—Nesta felt a wave of apprehension. Only one male remained arrogant and sneering, and unsurprisingly, it was the male who had been about to rape Ailie.

That male laughed. The sound was vicious and cruel and so chilling that Nesta’s blood froze inside of her. “Ironcrest does not take orders from females, especially not from witches—”

The Illyrian stopped short the moment that the manticores prowled out from between the boulders. Sala’s head was low, her fiery tail flicking from left to right, leaving a blaze of silver fire in its wake. A relentless snarl issued from the manticores throat—a sound that came from Nesta, too.

And by Sala’s side was Caer. All of the softness Nesta was privy to had gone from the animal. Instead, he was pure beast—a deadly apex predator who would bow to no-one but the one being who he thought to be worthy. Caer’s golden eyes were so intense they were glowing in the shade of the trees, and as he walked, he spread his leathery wings wide. The action was indisputably hostile and every single male tracked the movement, beforethey clocked what lay beyond those wings…

Caer’s tail was arched over Caerleon’s back and armed not with soft bristles but deadly sharp points, like metallic pine needles that stood to attention that as if they were waiting for the order to fly across the clearing and sink into the sentries. 

And Nesta felt it then—the sharp tang of the guards fear. One manticore was bad enough, but two? It didn’t make any difference that Maya had reported that there were a dozen guards. With the beasts on Nesta and Frawley’s side, the males should have already been taking to the skies. Nesta supposed it was only their years of training as warriors which meant they stood their ground.

Panic rose like a cresting wave—tainted with the scent of foreign males—the sensation building and building until Nesta could barely focus. She dug her fingernails into the meat of her palms, used her own pain to ground her, bringing her back to the present.

The world righted just in time for Nesta to see the largest male grab Ailie who was cowering against the rock. He tugged her to him, his movements rough and awful. Ailie staggered horribly, as if she were unused to using her legs. Around her ankles, Nesta saw red welts, as if her feet had been bound for so long the chains had started to cut into her skin. 

The male pressed a knife to the girl’s throat and his mouth twisted into a nasty smile that promised unimaginable cruelty. Of spilled blood and screaming pain. Of broken bones and mutilation. 

“Let her go,” Maya snapped, but her voice shook with unchained emotion. The male’s eyes gleamed at the slip in the twin’s mask.

At the sound of her mother’s voice, Ailie’s eyes slid across the clearing, but they remained hollow and unseeing, even as they snagged on Maya. Nesta practically heard Maya’s heart break, and that unimaginable ache made the blood roar in Nesta’s ears. Magic pushed against her skin, pressing to rush out of her, to wreak havoc and burn. 

This time, Nesta did not push down the magic roaring through her blood. Instead, she relinquishing the control on her power, allowing that silver to channel through her veins until it began to mist at her fingertips. It was a control which had been lacking in the past but this time did not fail her. Nesta knew how it felt for her magic to channel through Cassian’s siphons—knew how to control it in a way she had not before—and like when she had fought the kerits, Nesta knew she could summon any weapons she wished. 

Nesta’s magic was her own arsenal—she could forge and create and destroy at her will, and she would not yield.

A whip coiled around Nesta’s arm and glowed pewter, ready to strike. In the corner of her eye, Nesta saw Maya hold up her saber before her in fighting stance, and woodsmoke started to cloud from Frawley’s body; an ethereal, ancient power forged from the elements. 

The male’s eyes did not widen, he only dragged Ailie backwards, until the darkness of the cave swallowed them hole.

There was a pause that stretched out for a moment too long and then that fight or flight kicked in. The bastard who hailed from Windhaven launched himself into the skies, opting to run rather than die at the hands of a female, but Nesta would not allow it. That whip struck, her magic flying from her as she threw her hand out. It blazed up into the sky towards those beating wings and fastened around the male’s leg. A scream sounded as Nesta tugged on that whip with both strength and will, so the male plunged back to the ground. Nesta slammed the bastard into the nearest pine tree. He hit the bark with a sickening crack, but before he had a moment to recover, Nesta had let go of her end of the rope of fire, summoning it across the clearing, until it wrapped around the male’s body and the trunk like a coiling serpent. Round and round it went, again and again, until he was tied and unable to move.

Remembering her lessons in the training ring with Cassian, Nesta did not give herself a moment to admire her handiwork. Instead, she whirled on the spot, ready to brace herself for what was sure to be an imminent attack.

She was not wrong; an Illyrian was flying towards her, travelling at such speed that Nesta knew that whatever she could do to defend herself was going to be too late. The male’s longsword was drawn and pointed towards her, and the claws at the apex of his wings were wide open, prepared to maim.

If the Killing Calm had not descended on her, Nesta would have panicked, but that subdued fury had been channeled deep, deep inside of her to be utilised and converted into something useful. Steel pierced through the air as the male’s feet hit the floor a few feet away from her, that sword slicing towards her in a lethal arc—

Nesta braced herself for the impact of that killing blow, but then Sala was there, a blur of orange as she barrelled into the male, throwing him to the ground and tearing at him with teeth and claws.

Agonised screams ripped around the clearing. They twisted through Nesta with such savagery that had she not been rooted in the emotions flooding her senses—the emotions that were fuelling every movement—that Nesta would have doubled over from the agony of it all.

Instead, she used that pain to breathe flame at her fighting hand, until she was holding a sword of silver fire. But the weapon had only just taken form when someone barrelled into her from behind, throwing her to the ground. Dirt from the forest floor wound its way into Nesta’s mouth as her jaw cracked against the hard earth and pine needles. The breath was knocked out of her so violently that it hurt to breathe again, and by the time Nesta had summoned her lungs to work, a heavy weight was pressing on top of her, pinning her down so she couldn’t move. 

That fire at Nesta’s hand sputtered and died, and with it, that Killing Calm disappeared. In its place, pure undiluted panic thrummed through her as she struggled to throw off the weight crushing her to the floor. As she tried to rid herself of the memory of a human male from another time doing the exact same thing as greedy hands ripped at her clothing.

“Not so tough now, are you?” an unidentifiable voice snarled. 

Hot, unwelcome breath floated into Nesta’s ear as her hands were yanked roughly behind her back. That panic spiked until it was all-consuming—until Nesta could not focus on anything else but that and the chanting in her ears like the steady beat of a war drum: _You’re going to die, you’re going to die, you’re going to die._

That sound soared with the bone crushing panic, rising and rising and rising, until—

—a crescendo of red light bloomed around Nesta, the force unlike anything she had ever felt. Nesta felt it come from both inside of her and the pyrite at her chest; exploding without effecting her, as if she were the stick of dynamite but the detonation left her out of the equation. The force rippled outwards, throwing the male off her back as if he were nothing but a pesky fly. It even tore through the bonds that she had noticed were roping her hands together, so Nesta could scramble to her feet and unsheathe the sword from her back. 

The sentry who had attacked her was sprawled on the ground a few feet away. His wings were splayed out crooked beneath him, his legs spread wide. He must have hit his head hard, because he was too slow at opening his eyes, and by the time he was straining for the sword that lay just out of reach, Nesta was already standing tall over his body with Sala at her side. 

The manticore rested her huge paws on the Illyrian’s broken wings, pinning him to the ground. The sentry let out a hoarse shout of pain, his eyes widening in horror as Nesta raised the sword above her head and then in one fluid movement, thrust the steel downwards.

The scream of agony was like nothing Nesta had ever heard as the steel pierced through the flesh and bone of the male’s groin. The sound was grating and jarring but Nesta absorbed the noise, allowed it to push her down, down, down into herself until she barely felt anything at all.

When Nesta let go of the longsword, she cast one last look at the twisting agony on the sentry’s face, before she ordered, “Finish him, Sala.”

That was when the begging started, but Nesta did not waver in her resolve. She merely watched as Sala roared, her jaws gaping to make way for the silver fire that poured forth. Only then did Nesta turn away, sparing herself from witnessing the male roast alive until he was nothing but a charred body wreathed in ghostly flame. 

“Are you ok?” 

Maya was suddenly before Nesta, gripping the arms of her leathers. The twin’s face was streaked with blood and her steel dripped ruby from where she had just gutted the nearest sentry. 

“I tried to get across to you,” Maya panted, “but he kept me busy.”

She nodded to the dead Illyrian she’d just cut down and sliced her steel through the remains of the magical binding which was still encasing Nesta’s right wrist.

Unable to speak—not able to voice how raw she felt—Nesta merely nodded. Now was not the time to explain that the world had seemed to careen and tilter.

“We need to get to the cave,” Maya said, thrusting a determined chin in the direction of the cliff-face. 

Ahead of them, Frawley was firing deathly needles of pine from her palms towards the remaining sentries flanking the cave. The needles flew in clusters of spears, stabbing through flesh with a precision that reminded Nesta that whilst Frawley had chosen to heal, she was not unfamiliar with the battlefield. And as those needles hit home, Caer was there to polish off the fallen, those sharp teeth ripping out throats and tossing them efficiently onto the forest floor.

“That’s where they took Ailie,” Maya pressed on. “It’s where they take all of the girls. Please—hurry.”

Then time skipped forward, as if it were moving at speed. Two males hurled spears sheathed in light towards she and Maya, but Nesta’s fire flew, melting the weapons to cinders before they could even make half the distance. At some point, a silver bow took form in Nesta’s hands, her arrows of fire loaded and flying, hitting males square in the heart as Maya ran at her side.

Everything slowed again when they joined Frawley at the opening of the cave. The witch was breathing hard, and Caer, who was beside her was growling low in his throat. Like Sala’s, his muzzle was coated in blood.

Frawley flung up a shield as Maya made to step forward into the darkness.

“I got the bastard straight through the eye,” Frawley snarled, and Nesta knew who she meant without the witch having to explain. “I think that’s all of them, but I can’t be sure.” 

That ice blue eye swivelled, tracking the darkness, and once again, Nesta suspected that Frawley could see much more than the fae eyesight allowed. “Let Caer and Sala scout out the area first. We won’t save any of the girls if any cowering males decide to use them as bait.”

Maya looked as if she was about to protest, but Frawley’s shield remained firmly in place. It seemed like time had frozen still, but then Caer let out a roar and that magic dropped.

Maya all but ran inside. 

“Prepare yourself,” Frawley told Nesta, her fingers digging into Nesta’s arm. “You’re going to need your healing magic.”

The cave was damp and so dark that it took Nesta’s Fae eyesight a good few seconds to adjust. 

The first thing her eyes focussed on was the gaping hole in the middle of the cave floor. It was the shape of a half moon and in its centre was what looked to be an enormous fire pit forged of black steel. As Nesta neared it, she saw it was not full of ashes but an oily liquid that was tangy and metallic on Nesta’s tongue—familiar—and, _oh Gods._ Blood. It was blood in that carved out pit. 

And in cages against the damp stone walls were females—no, Nesta corrected, _girls._ They were all girls, some of whom could have barely turned fourteen; the same age of Feyre when she first disappeared into those woods. Their faces were dirty and haunted, their clothing torn and ragged. Their wings were drooping and… broken. So many of them were broken. 

Nesta felt herself drift even further away—wholly detached from her body, even as she reached for that tether inside of her, tugging and tugging on it until she felt the hard rock of the cave floor beneath her feet. 

Somehow, her feet moved of their own will. Frawley had cast the cave in a faint glow of light, and with each flick of her hands, the cage doors began to snick open one-by-one.

But Nesta did not stop to assist the witch in coaxing the girls out. Instead, she walked until she found Maya. 

The twin was crouched at the back of the cave, reaching a tentative arm out to her cowering daughter who was curled against the outside of a cage, her filthy hands clutching the iron bars of where another girl was still imprisoned.

To the right, by Ailie’s feet, was the sneering male who had held a dagger to her throat. A lethal needle of pine was sticking out of his pupil and blood pooled around his head from where he lay across the stone floor. His blood glistened red as it seeped across the stone and onto Ailie’s bare feet—into her ragged clothing and dirty skin.

Ailie’s wings were mangled and bleeding, and the girl’s expression was terrifyingly devoid of expression. Despite Maya’s soft voice, Ailie did not react, and when Nesta reached out with her magic, she felt…nothing. Only unending emptiness, as if the only thing that remained of the girl was a hollowed out husk.

“Please,” Nesta said softly, dropping a hand to Maya’s shoulder. “Tend to your other daughter. Let me heal Ailie’s wings. Let me take away her pain as best I can.”

When Maya moved out of the way, Nesta fell to the blood-soaked floor.

Ailie flinched, flattening her body against the wall and the cage bars, but Nesta somehow managed to offer a smile that she usually only reserved for Elain or Roksana. 

“My name is Nesta,” Nesta said gently. She lifted her hands to showcase the glowing white light that was encompassing her palms. This time, the girl did not cower, as if the magic singing from Nesta’s hands soothed her. “I have magic that can heal your wings. Would you let me heal you?”

An almost imperceptible nod. And then that bright light which was singing that beautiful melody rose into a crescendo, as Nesta’s magic fully turned over inside of her and began to pour forth.

Nesta let the magic guide her—gave herself over to it at the same time she tried to remember what Frawley had taught her. Her power was diminished but it was plentiful. It was strong. It was resilient. That well of magic seemingly infinite but with a very solid bottom Nesta could not lose sight of.

Time blurred. Her name was called. But Nesta only focussed on the task before her, the immense injuries that she had to knit back together. The broken bones and tendons. The cuts and bruises and tears. The neat incision that she had reformed before on a female much older than her.

And all that time, her name was chanted behind that shadowy veil until, suddenly, it wasn’t. Until it was a voice that was shaking and terrified, pleading; “ _Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.”_

A warning call.

Suddenly, that supply of magic no longer felt plentiful, and Nesta felt that ethereal light wink out until she was submerged into the inky, depthless dark.

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no—_

A sharp, forceful tug at Nesta’s ribcage, so hard that the bone seemed to crack. Pain exploded inside of her as a fire of pine and musk and fresh air speared down that bond, melting that ice, forcing Nesta to wake up from the intricate spell she had weaved upon herself. 

Healing magic faltered at her palms, and as that white light began to sputter, Nesta started to claw. She dug her nails into the walls of that darkness and began to climb with the limbs and muscles that she had come to learn were strong and reliable. 

Up and up Nesta went, tearing with bloody nails, away from the spiral of black that tasted of the last bitter dregs of tea and the metallic tang of blood—away from the surface of her magic reserves that would see her body bleeding out. 

And all the while, the voice behind that veil moaned to her like a ravaged wind—ancient yet undeniably familiar: _Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—_

Power died at Nesta’s hands with such suddenness that she careened backwards into something hard yet soft. Something warm and beating. 

Slowly, the world seeped back into view, but it was not in colour. Everything was void of life—of joy— the despair too much, even as she saw Aelie healed before her.

It was all too much.

Cassian was looking down from where he knelt behind her, his face uncommonly pale, his hair a tangled mess. He was holding her wrists in his hands and his expression… it was not soft. It was ravaged with a fury that was unbridled and untamed. The ground trembled and shook as he furiously scanned her face—her body—for injury.

Only the ruby of his siphons broke through the shades of darkness. That and his eyes—glowing, bright amber flecked with sea green. Nesta tried to focus on those colours, tried to will the life back into things but she couldn’t find purchase. She couldn’t— 

“Walls up.”

It was a command that cut through everything, like a scythe carving effortlessly through wheat. Cassian’s voice was cold and distant. It burned like ice. Unfathomable rage that Nesta wanted to smooth over. That she wanted to thaw without understanding why, so much so that she forced every ounce of her energy into pushing something back—the only thing she had left to give.

“Walls up, Nesta,” Cassian ordered again.

His expression was still fierce and unyielding, but when she raised a glowing hand to his face, he leant into her touch and squeezed his eyes shut with a shudder. 

The cave shuddered in response. 

Against her back—her ribcage—Nesta could feel the pounding of his heart. It was slamming against bone, relentless and terrified. 

Beating for her, she realised.

“Walls up, Nesta,” Cassian repeated, and unthinkingly, Nesta obeyed. She stacked her walls back into place, brick by brick. Higher and higher, until they were a formidable fortress. That numbness descended with every brick that slid into place, smoothing over the pain and the horror, until only one drawbridge remained down, leading to a path lined with brambles.

Nesta left it open. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's here... the chapter you have all been waiting for. I can only hope that you like it and that it tugs at your heartstrings. This is my Valentine's day gift to all my wonderful readers who have stuck with me for thirty chapters for... this, I imagine. It's a start—a beginning for these two—as they step into something new. As usual, forgive any typos and I intend to reply to every one of you who commented on the last chapter. I'm so sorry for the delay in replying, things have been a bit crazy on my end, but I appreciate every single one of you.
> 
> ACOSF in two days...! And because I am desperately trying to keep spoiler free, please don't mention any snippets you may have received beyond SJM's teasers. That includes the leaked chapters—please keep it to yourself but of course, let me know what you think of the chapter. Thank you so much <3

** Chapter Thirty  
Cassian ** ****

Pure, undiluted rage burned inside of Cassian. It roared, drowning everything out as he landed to a blood bath of winged males impaled with pine needles, charred ashen bodies and the evidence of killing blows. But Cassian only registered them because of the years of training that had been drummed into him to catalogue and analyse his surroundings.

His hands wielded twin swords as if they were an extension of who he was but his legs… they moved of their own accord, racing towards the opening of the cave without him asking them to. Towards that scent that Cassian had no problem detecting above the blood and shit and gore.

Behind him, Lorrian swore as they stepped over the threshold of the cave’s entrance, their siphons flashing and flaring to find rusty cages lining the walls and a pit of blood in the centre. The awful images of dirty abused girls registered as Cassian desperately scanned the cave—until his eyes fell on Nesta’s back. Her leathers were streaked in red and she was kneeling in a pool of blood before an injured girl who was wreathed in that wondrous, singing light. 

Frawley appeared beside them in a swirl of smoke, moving in that way she often did that hinted she was more element than being, stopping them in their tracks a few feet away.

“What took you so long,” Frawley snapped to Cassian, one blue eye boring into him whilst the other flicked to Lorrian at his side, as if her attention could not help but be drawn to her husband. “Get Nesta out of the trance—now. Pull on that damned cord, do whatever you need to do. She channelled her energy from the fear and despair, but her body is dropping into exhaustion. She’s going to crash earlier than expected. We haven’t trained for this. Only you—”

Frawley’s voice tuned out as the crack of Cassian’s knee-caps jarred his body as he hit the rocky floor. Wet seeped through Cassian’s leathers, courtesy of the pool of fresh blood coming from the dead male to Cassian’s right, but he barely registered. He was too busy detecting the stale scent of arousal and death and cruelty. This was a male had no doubt stuck his cock where it did not belong and caused unimaginable harm to innocent, defenceless girls as they cried and struggled.

Anger soared into the snow ruffled peaks of Cassian’s fury at the thought and the cave… it quaked in response.

“Don’t bring the cave down as you do it.” Frawley’s words bit through him, her voice wholly ancient—too like Amren’s. “Put a leash on it otherwise we’ll be buried in rubble.”

It was easier said than done to reign in that snarling beast. But then time seemed to—change. From the moment Cassian pressed his back to Nesta’s and hoarsely began to chant her name, everything blurred and tumbled. As Cassian’s eyes shut of their own accord, the cave became as dark and depthless as a night sky devoid of starlight. As Cassian was pulled deep within himself, sucked inwards by a vacuum he had no control over.

The black Cassian spiralled down towards was as thick as tar, but to his right, a shadowed veil rippled in an invisible wind. It chanted in tandem with the screaming in his mind, that one word repeated over and over and over—a mate calling to its mate. A male calling to their beloved and hoping they were enough. 

That beautiful healing lullaby had started to miss the right notes, the music falling into something off-kilter and gut-wrenchingly wrong. Panic rose like bile in Cassian’s throat and he reached for that twisted rope, and, without hesitating or second guessing himself, he tugged on it with all of his might.

The resounding crack and splinter in Cassian’s ears was awful. Pain threw itself down that bond and into the heart of his chest. And then, for a beat as that pain ebbed away, there was nothing… Even the healing music stopped. The quiet was so eerie Cassian could only hear his heart beating wildly in his ears. But then he felt it: fiery strength and steely determination. A light travelling down that tether to meet his, scenting of jasmine and vanilla—of Nesta. 

Then Cassian was thrown outwards and his eyes opened to find the cave bleeding back into focus and that enthralling power dying at Nesta’s hands. Her magic dropped with such suddenness that she lost balance and careened backwards into his chest. The jolt had the world tilting again, but Cassian scrambled to collect himself, encasing Nesta safely in wings and arms.

By the time those smoky blue eyes snapped open and stared up at him, Cassian was already ferociously scanning Nesta’s body for injury. He catalogued every cut and scrape, every smear of blood. He turned her hands over in his to find them stained red. There was so much death on Nesta’s hands if the charred remains and bodies impaled with fiery weapons were anything to go by. This strong, sharp female fighting for what was right—to fight for those who could not defend themselves, even as it sent her spiralling into the darkest of places. 

And Cassian knew it had effected her in unthinkable ways. Knew as he stared into those beautiful eyes that had held such life in the past month and found her pupils blown wide and unseeing. Felt the churning emotions that Nesta was too overwhelmed to keep in check as they hurtled down that bond between them. Frozen wrath and terror and agony. Each sensation a double-edged sword as it was plunged into the gut, over and over.

Fury clambered inside of Cassian at the injustice of Nesta’s magic. That not only was she burdened with the tireless task of keeping a check on her own heightened emotions, but others as well. Constantly monitoring them day in and day out so they did not become too much—so they did not swell and spill over the wall she had resurrected for herself. The wall that had been lowered so it was waist-high rather than a fortress—so she was not doomed to float through life numb and unfeeling and at a distance from others. 

Understanding all of that—the sacrifice and burden Nesta carried—had the cave shaking again as Cassian ordered Nesta to put her walls up. Loose pebbles and dust rained down from the ceiling, and in the periphery, Cassian heard Lorrian swear and Frawley hiss, but that anger… he couldn’t control it. It was white hot and sizzling, boiling his blood and making his power itch. His siphons hadn’t stopped flaring since he’d first felt Nesta roaring down that bond and he’d known something was dreadfully, knee-tremblingly wrong. He and Lorrian had torn through the sky as he followed that invisible tie wreathed in light—emerald and ruby shooting stars tracking their way across the sky. 

And now… that anger that had been pushing against his skin was morphing into something truly terrible—the monster who became consumed by blood lust. Just as he had that day when he’d slaughtered and tortured all of the males at the Spearhead camp—

A hand rested on Cassian’s cheek, cutting through that urge to massacre and ask questions later. The touch was grounding and so unquestionably right that he leant into that blood splattered palm, relishing in the cool, slim fingers which cut through that fire.

“Walls up, Nesta,” Cassian ordered, as he felt those talons hooking deep inside of her, clawing at her, tugging her down into the oily depths where he could not reach her. He watched those eyes glaze over until they were hollow, and even though that bond was open, everything went so unearthly quiet that Cassian would have thought some vital connection had been severed if it wasn’t for the faintest glimmer of her that sparked in the gloomy dark.

Everything moved too fast after that. And the entire time Nesta walked around the cave and clearing like a phantom ghost, even as she held her hands out to assist Frawley in healing any urgent injuries. 

“We need a support unit or we need to get out,” Lorrian said roughly in Cassian’s ear, as together they surveyed the bastard tied to the tree. Nesta’s bindings still glowed silver and the bastard’s head hung limp against his chest from where Cassian had knocked him out. 

“Frawley can cast a shield over this place so nobody can get in or out without our say so,” Lorrian continued, “but I don’t doubt that Ironcrest will have warriors out searching for us. Not after we left so abruptly without informing anybody of where we were going. I bet the first thing Rufous did was send a messenger straight to Marsh or Kallon. I suggest we leave and come back tomorrow with males we can trust to search the place.”

Kallon—the prince who none of them had seen all day. Not even in the sparring ring. And whilst Marsh hadn’t made an appearance, it was the latter that sent warning bells ringing in Cassian’s head. Something about it was off. All of them could all sense it, but right now there were bigger matters at hand. Namely what to do with the females.

“Can you host the girls at the cottage?” Cassian asked his friend. From the girls that had been able to speak, it was clear that all of them apart from Samra and Ailie had no parents to speak of. “Set up makeshift accommodation until we decide what we need to do?”

It was dangerous territory they were stepping into. A statement and the beginnings of power-play to take females from a camp, even if it was for their safety. Lesser actions had started wars between the clans, but Cassian would not stand by. Rhys wouldn’t either. Especially not when the males were wearing bands around their arms that Cassian was certain belonged to the rebellion.

“Of course we can,” Frawley announced as she came up beside them. Nesta and Sala were close behind. The manticore had stuck to Nesta like a shadow since Cassian had arrived, as if she too could sense that Nesta was far, far away. “It will be quicker if I channel us to the cottage.”

Lorrian was frowning with concern. “All at once?”

“Needs must,” Frawley clipped, but she did not meet her husband’s eye. “It will drain me after I cast a shield but I can do it. It does mean that I won’t be able to channel you and Nesta back to Windhaven. There won’t be room—”

“That’s fine,” Cassian interjected, with a quick cut of his hand through the air. “We’ll fly from the Steppes.”

“I can help.” It was the first time Nesta had spoken in a long while and it came out as a rasp. “I still have some magic left—to help heal the girls. I can heal their wings.”

Terror gripped at Cassian’s gut but he would not tell Nesta no. He wouldn’t take this from her—her ability to heal and bring life rather than take it away. Even though Cassian was tired, he could feel the whisper of Nesta’s magic churning back to life, no doubt fuelled from the sickening history that had seeped into the landscape. 

Those eyes slid to Cassian as her chin tilted upwards. And although there was a fierceness to Nesta’s expression, something was missing, as if she wasn’t really there. “I can do it.”

He nodded to show he understood, just as Frawley added, “Caer has already gone on ahead to alert my sisters. They’ll come to help heal the injured. One of them can send word to Velaris for you, assuming that’s what you need to do.”

Cassian nodded. That was essential. Cassian needed to connect with his family to tell them what had happened here. He needed to let Rhys into his mind so he could showcase the horrors and get Azriel down to interrogate the bastard Nesta had thought to keep alive rather than bring about his death.

The male that Cassian knew to be called Alaksandar had struggled and thrashed against Nesta’s magical bindings when he had first spied the general—had pissed himself as he surveyed the iron rage on Cassian’s face. It had taken everything in Cassian not to murder him on the spot, but they needed him—needed the information he would bring once Azriel plucked out Truth-Teller from its shadowy sheath. Not that Cassian wasn’t tempted to wrestle the information out of the male himself.

Time sped by after that. Frawley obliterated the shattered remains of the shield hiding the cave from sight before casting an impenetrable web of her own. Then she had weaved another bubble—her magic a smoke that glittered with such gentleness that Nesta did not tense beside him. Cassian pulled her to him anyway, burying his hands in her hair at the nape of her neck. But Nesta did not look at him. Did not even seem to notice as they blended into smoke and mist—into water and earth and air—until they were channelled into the muddy paddock that served as a sparring ring at the back of the cottage. 

Frawley’s sisters had kitted out the barn with inviting, spacious beds and cast their magic so it was wonderfully warm and inviting—safe. And even though Frawley’s sisters were far more intimidating than the white-haired witch, they had all dampened their glow, emitting an aura of calm that even made Cassian forget at times that they were something ancient—something other.

Cassian sought out Kalika as soon as they landed—the dark-skinned witch of the Northern Steppes and the most terrifying of Frawley’s sisters—and dared to ask her to cast a message to Rhys which disappeared on a moth-carried wind. Frawley’s other sisters—Narihara and Andraste—swished between the kitchen and the barn, remedying and administering sleeping draughts and tinctures designed to ease pain.

Frawley saw that all of them received her tea tonic and Cassian had felt energy flush into his system before it was promptly drained again as he ferried between the barn and the cottage, pressing drinks into Nesta’s hands whenever he saw her start sway.

Somehow Cassian knew when Nesta was done—when her body was close to giving out—the tea no longer enough to replenish her magic levels which had seen her hanging just barely on the precipice of her magic reserves. Nesta had not had enough power left to heal the cuts in the girls wings, but was able to knot bone and membrane back together. It had taken Madja weeks to repair the tatters of Cassian’s wings—the spell-work too intricate for even the most skilled of healers—but Nesta melded bone and membrane back together with an ease that others could not muster. Even Frawley’s sisters had eyed Nesta with cautious admiration, as if they could sense that celestial _something_ inside of her that set her apart from everyone and everything. A queen on a much-earned pedestal. 

Cassian found Nesta kneeling by another makeshift bed, her hands emitting that pure white light as they hovered over a set of bent and torn wings. The light was buttery soft rather than blinding white, and Cassian could tell from the way it sang softly that her power was a whisper of what it should be—just as his was. Despite the multiple brews he had drank, his siphons throbbing had ebbed to a flickering pulse, something which had Frawley eyeing him in that disconcerting way of hers as she brusquely waved at him to go home and come back when he was useful.

He had not protested. He wanted to get Nesta home. For her to convalesce in a place that was associated with safety and warmth. Where she could bathe and rid herself of the blood whilst he sat with an ear to the door. Where he could ensure that she ate and looked after herself. A place where she could be herself—where she could be quiet and digest and allow herself to be hollow if that was what she needed. But Nesta now—pretending to be ok when her eyes were so blank—was making it hard to breathe. 

And still down that bond, Cassian felt nothing. Wide open, for once, but utterly empty—like a tunnelled-out void.

“Nesta.” Cassian touched his fingers so they rested gently against a shoulder. She did not reply or twist to look up at him, but the light faded from her palms, like a star winking out.

Cassian took a healthy step away as the girl Nesta had been healing watched him with wary, glazed eyes. He made himself smile at her, even as the girl shrank back into herself, pressing herself into the mattress as if she was willing herself to disappear.

For the first time in Cassian’s life, he wished he could vanish the wings and the tattoos—anything that marked him as Illyrian. That reminded the girl of the horrors she had suffered.

Bending over, Nesta spoke in such hushed tones to the girl that even Cassian could not hear her. But then Nesta was standing, her posture as steely and distant as she rose as if she were balancing a crown on her head. Narihara swooped in to administer the girl a sedative to help her sleep and Sala, who had been sitting on her haunches by the bed, rose to her feet.

Together, they walked in silence out of the barn. Cassian deliberately paced himself a few feet behind Nesta and the manticore who padded at her side. Dusk was well and truly descending and starlight already dusted the night sky. In the Steppes nature was its own creature and despite the cottage, it felt as if the sky was a tangible canvas, so low they could reach up and brush the starlight with their fingertips.

“Sweetheart,” Cassian rasped softly. He had intended to say something else, not that he knew _what_ that was going to be, but as Nesta turned to him, speech left him. She looked so lost—so broken and traumatised—that Cassian felt as if he had been transported back to when she had first arrived in Illyria with him. When she was gaunt and traumatised and wholly unreachable. 

Cassian’s blood-stained fingers lifted her chin so he could search her eyes. And in them—nothing. No whisper of that colossal fire or that fierce defiance that he loved. None of that at all. Only vast emptiness.

“I want to go home.” 

The confession was small and almost childlike and Cassian nearly fell to his knees.

_Home_. She wanted to go home—with him.

Cassian pulled Nesta’s unnaturally pliant body to him. One hand fisting into the hair at the nape of her neck—into the tangled brown hair that had all but fallen from her braid. Nesta did not hug him back, but after a moment, she fisted her hands against his chest and her forehead came to rest just over his heart.

“Ok sweetheart, we’ll go,” Cassian murmured, dropping his lips to the crown of her head and pressing them there—instilling all the love and comfort into the gesture that he could muster. “I’ll take you home.”  
  


* * *

  
Windhaven was sleeping when they finally landed outside of the bungalow with Sala close behind them. Even the skies had been quiet on the flight back: Cassian had only seen the odd Illyrian patrolling the skies, their figures a streak of darkness temporarily blotting out the starlight as they tracked the perimeter. They usually knew better than to stop Cassian mid-flight, but he had winked his siphons into the dark anyway, warning them to steer clear. The last thing they needed was to be stopped when they were so close to home. 

The stone house was eerily quiet when they stepped across the threshold, and bobbing faelights gently flickered to life, illuminating the way as Cassian led Nesta by the hand down the hallway. He had been touching her at every opportunity since he had found her on her knees, covered in blood and her hands humming with that ancient healing light. Cassian had hoped the physical contact might anchor her, but Nesta had continued to slip away from him ever since, until their connection was nothing but an empty, lifeless corridor. 

“Shower then bed,” Cassian told Nesta as he pushed open the door to the bathroom to reveal the large tub. “You’ll feel more fae once you have cleaned up.”

Nesta did not respond. She just stared past him, her pupils blown wide and unseeing. The sight nearly undid him. It had been a long while since he’d seen that look.

As he turned on the faucets and pulled the lever under the taps, Cassian wondered if this was how Nesta had been after the war. If whilst he and his friends had been toasting their success and trying to pretend everything was fine, she had gone up to her room, hollow and broken, already changed into someone else.

And the worst thing about it all was that Cassian had left Nesta to her own devices. He had not chased after her and reiterated what he had told her on the battlefield. Already he had been so consumed with the terror of rejection—the fear that now they weren’t on death’s door, Nesta might shatter his heart rather than allow him to kiss her.

It turned out _that_ fear had only served to cement Nesta’s opinion of him—that he merely lusted after her, the bond tricking him into thinking he wanted something that he didn’t. That what his heart really wanted was Mor instead. Nesta had made that much clear the evening before. 

He was a fucking idiot. Not just for failing to pursue Nesta, but for failing to intervene when he had known how sick she was. For not using his years of warrior training to understand what was truly going on—how it was not about him and his bruised ego, but something else entirely. Something much bigger.

Running a hand under the water, Cassian waited until it was hot and the tendrils of steam filled the room with its wispy fingers. When he turned back to Nesta, all it took was one look at her small and blood-stained body to know that if he left her to it, she’d stand in that shower long after the water ran cold.  


“Usually we take our clothes off for a shower, sweetheart,” Cassian teased, hoping that his words would coax out some sort of reaction. When Nesta remained quiet, he cupped her pale, blood-streaked face with a hand. “Don’t finally give me that opportunity to undress you,” he warned.

Nesta’s fingers clasped around his arm and his leathers creaked at the impact. It was a silent plea for him to stay, so Cassian just gave her the lopsided smile he usually saved for her. “My lucky day,” he said softly.

Tugging off his stained clothing, Cassian stepped into the shower in his shorts. He bit back a groan as the hot water ran over his flared wings, soothing away the sharp cold which had bit into them as he flew them home. 

After adjusting the temperature, Cassian held his hand out to Nesta. Her eyes were still devoid of expression, and although she was watching him, Cassian had a feeling that Nesta was really floating somewhere above them, detached from her body and unable to come back down.

“It’s nice and warm,” Cassian coaxed, but his voice remained a soft echo rather than playful.

There was a pause where time seemed to stretch out too thin. Where Sala looked beseechingly at Nesta with worried golden eyes. When the manticore nudged Nesta’s arm with her nose, Nesta startled, as if she had indeed been very far away.

He knew things were bad—very bad—when Nesta mutely peeled off her own leathers and joined him. 

Cassian had fantasised about taking Nesta in the shower more times than he dared to count. It was usually hard and fast against the wall, her breathy moans ringing off the tiles as he made her come around him. It had never crossed Cassian’s mind that they might shower together covered in blood and still wearing their underwear. 

Slim fingers curled around his as Nesta stepped into the tub and Cassian only had time to briefly note Nesta’s body had filled out—those sharp, skeletal edges softened with flesh and toned muscle built from hearty meals and rigorous training—before he realised just how cold she was. Goosebumps littered Nesta’s skin and her lips held a blueish hue that had alarm bells sounding inside of his head. 

Wings and arms curved around her on instinct, coaxing Nesta under the water with him so he could cocoon her in heat. He foamed up a sponge, and when Nesta made no move to take it from him, Cassian gently began to run it over her pale skin—until dried blood smeared, running down her white skin before it swirled down the drain. 

For the entire duration Nesta remained vacant and unresponsive. Yet, even though Cassian couldn’t feel the faintest flicker of emotion through their bond, he knew that she trusted him enough to care for her. So, when the water ran clear, Cassian did not ask for permission before he slowly started to unravel her braid. It was hard work—matted dark red ensnared the hair but after working shampoo into the strands, Cassian was able to run his fingers through without any snags. 

Leaving Nesta to wash out the shampoo herself, Cassian started to make work on his own body. He was covered in far less blood than Nesta—by the time he’d arrived, it had been too late to massacre those bastards himself—but red coated his knees and legs from where he had dropped into the pool of blood on the floor. And his hands…they had been smeared with it from where he had held Nesta’s wrists, trying to coax her back to him as she plunged to rock bottom.

Cassian was so consumed by the memory that he was only just in time to catch Nesta tipping her head back under the faucet with her eyes wide open. A hand shot out reflexively, cupping Nesta’s hairline as shampoo started to run down her face and into the long spikes of her eyelashes. The bubbles must have stung, but Nesta didn't even blink. It was as if she hadn’t even noticed. 

After that, Cassian didn't take his eyes off of her, and once Nesta’s hair was free from shampoo, he turned her in his arms so her back was flush against his chest and began to tackle her fingernails. Her body was so unusually pliant—so mouldable—that Cassian felt as if he were a puppet master with strings, her arms and hands limp as he scrubbed at the arcs of her fingernails until they were free of red.

In fact, Cassian had become so used to supporting Nesta’s body that he almost startled when he turned back from shutting off the now lukewarm water to find her facing him. Frozen in place, Cassian watched a pale arm lift so Nesta could brush her ice cold fingers over a whorl of ink curving around his left bicep. 

Cassian was barely breathing—not only unsure of what to do but also of startling her, somehow—but then something broke inside of him and he reached for her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles for far longer than he should have.

It hurt to move away from her—to step out of the tub and wrap a towel around his hips—but Nesta had started to shiver uncontrollably, her skin entirely bleached of colour. He threw the largest, fluffiest towel he could find around her body, and desperate to warm her up, rubbed his palms over her arms, encasing her in wings as he lifted her onto the bath mat beside Sala. And whilst logic told Cassian that Nesta was shaking from a combination of both shock and cold, it didn’t stop the worry that took a hold of him.

“Get yourself dry,” Cassian told Nesta. “I’ll go and get you some clothes.”

Suppressing a grunt at the winter chill that clung to the air and snapped at his wings, Cassian lit the log burner in his room before he quickly tugged on some loose pants. The unconscious decision for Nesta to stay with him was already fully formed in his mind. There was no way he was leaving her to sleep alone given her current state, and whilst Cassian could sleep in the armchair by her bed, the territorial part of him needed her safe with him, in his bed, as close to him as she would allow. And after last night… it wasn’t as if they hadn’t shared a bed before, anyway.

The panic that flared inside of Cassian when he arrived back at the bathroom with a clean nightgown clutched in his hand was so sharp and twisting that his breath caught. Nesta hadn’t moved—not an inch—and whilst Sala was nudging her companion’s torso with her muzzle, Nesta just continued to shiver violently as if she hadn’t felt the impact at all. Her skin was still wet and her hair hung lank against her shoulders. Droplets of water dripped steadily onto the floor tiles from where she had failed to ring it out.

Cassian swore. Stumbling towards her, he grasped at Nesta’s shoulders with his hands. She was cold to the touch. “Sweetheart, we need to get you dry,” he rasped. 

He ducked his head to look at her, but Nesta just curled in on herself, her arms wrapping even further around her body as she shook. Cupping her face in his hands, Cassian hoped that his touch would bring her out of the far reaches of her mind, but she just continued to tremble, mute.

So, with gentle, efficient hands, Cassian towelled Nesta dry before pulling her nightgown over her head. He pressed her hair gently between the swaths of a towel, coaxing out as much water as possible, and when he was satisfied her hair wasn’t going to soak her nightgown, he stepped back.

“You’re staying with me tonight,” he told her sternly, and not bothering to wait for thereply he knew would not come, Cassian scooped her uncharacteristically malleable body into his arms and carried her to his room. 

The log burner was still blazing fiercely as he lowered Nesta onto the midnight blue sheets. He piled the duvets on top of her anyway, plus a few more thick blankets over that. Not wanting the fire to go out, he threw some more wood through the cast-iron door, working quickly in case the fire crackled or popped. With Nesta’s magic near drained, the last thing Cassian wanted was to trigger her flashbacks on top of everything else, but he was too concerned about her blue lips to forgo the fire altogether.

Only the top half of Nesta’s head was visible beneath the mountains of blankets, her pointed ears poking beneath her wet hair. She looked so small and vulnerable it was hard to believe that she had slain so many males earlier, that power of hers sizzling and burning through flesh until they were nothing but charred remains and shells of who they once were. Those males might have taken those girls freedom but Nesta had taken their lives before Cassian had even got to her. 

He wondered when he would stop failing her—if he ever would.

“Come here,” Cassian murmured as he climbed into bed beside her. 

Nesta surprised him when she did as he asked. Her knees knocked against his thighs as she inched closer—like a moth to a flame—and she rested her cold forehead against his chest without being prompted, right over his heart, as if the warm beat of life would thaw the frozen ice in her bones. 

Tangling their legs together, Cassian tried to ignore how his skin hummed as their bodies intertwined, hating himself for reacting so strongly to her touch when she was suffering. He lifted a wing instead—an unknown apology—and wrapped it around her, using it to direct the heat from the fire towards their bodies.

The rustle of his wing made Nesta stir. Slowly, she looked up through her eyelashes and as their eyes locked, something clicked deep inside of him, turning. His heart let out a long, deep thump, the sound reverberating throughout his body. He felt it in the air at the same time that Nesta’s hands fisted in his tunic. The sensation was heavy and delicious and as intoxicating as any drug.

Their sudden intimacy felt _so right_. They had never touched like this—her body entangled with his—and now he knew what it was like, he never wanted it to end. He couldn’t bare the thought of sleeping without her. Even in his sleep last night he had reached for her, his wing protecting her instinctively. 

He wondered if Nesta knew what that meant.  


“Better?” Cassian made himself ask, rubbing a palm up and down the arm that wasn’t pressed to the mattress. It was a poor attempt to sever his thoughts, but his voice was hoarse… nervous. His heart had started to kick again, the sensation hard and slow against his ribcage, his blood thick and sluggish in his veins. Her eyes were the most blue he’d ever seen them; they were the colour of the sky after a strong bout of rain, as the clouds parted to make way for the sun.

Somehow, Cassian knew what was going to happen before it did. He couldn’t even say who initiated it, only that their heads tilted and dipped in unison, like two magnets inexplicably and undeniably drawn to one another.

If they ever kissed again, Cassian had always imagined that it would be passionate and frantic. A screaming match turned into a lusting frenzy, his mouth hot on hers as he swallowed her moans. But this… this was better. This was perfect. It was his undoing.

It was slow and scorching, the intensity of it so immediate that Cassian felt like he was suspended in time… hovering. And he knew… he knew that they were meant for this, he and Nesta. They were meant for one another from the instant their open lips brushed, from the way that they moulded together like they had been kissing for centuries. Heat bloomed in his chest, a torturous burning pleasure that spread through every nerve in his body, licking its way down his limbs before settling like a weight in his groin. His body was taut and pliant at the same time and all he wanted was to be even closer to her, to feel every inch of her body fit against his own. 

He wanted to taste her skin, to bury himself in her scent. He wanted—

A groan rumbled through him as their tongues met, the sound deep and almost animalistic. Desperate for more, he tangled a hand in Nesta’s wet hair, gently tilting her head back so he could be granted better access to her mouth. 

Nesta made a strangled noise in the back of her throat—the first sound she had made in hours—and her knee slipped further between his thighs, her body moving to press flush against his—

The movement sobered Cassian, the hazy fog of want parting slightly for reason to stumble through, like a newborn fawn on gangly legs. 

The gravity of what they were doing hit him like a punch to the gut. 

If she moved any closer, she would feel just how much he wanted her. 

There would be no turning back, after that.

Even though his body was screaming for him to flip her onto her back and settle between her legs, Cassian made himself pull away. The movement felt wrong… agonising. 

His hand shook with restraint.

If Cassian had ever doubted their mating bond, he wasn’t now. Instinct was driving him to claim her, even though he knew in the back of his mind—the part that cared so deeply—that Nesta was too raw, too exposed to know what she wanted. Even though she was the most vulnerable he’d ever seen her, the territorial male in him wanted to bury himself inside of her; to solidify the very thing that had been driving him insane for the past year and a half. What kind of male did that make him, he wondered? He was ready to bet all his wealth that it didn’t make him a good one.

Panting, Cassian searched Nesta’s face. She was breathing hard, her lips pink and swollen, her hair already starting to curl in the heat from the fire. Cassian had always thought her beautiful, but now she was breathtaking. It took Cassian a few seconds to realise why and when he did, his heart contracted to the point of pain: the light was back in her eyes, as if their kiss had woken her up. 

Cassian’s resolve wavered. Maybe this was what she needed. Maybe—

As if sensing his inner conflict Nesta slid a cool hand up to his neck, levering herself up to press her lips to his. Her leg rode up over his thigh… over his hip and he moaned into her mouth, his will splintering as he felt the desire thrumming through her—between them. He tightened his grasp on her, resisting the urge to slide his hand round to her ass. To tug her closer.

With a last long, lingering kiss, Cassian made himself tear his lips from hers. “Nesta, stop,” he murmured against her mouth.

She stilled then, and as the implication behind his words dawned on her, that light started to fade in her eyes; dazzling blue dulling to an unreadable grey. Cassian pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, to her nose, to her mouth. They were gentle and he hoped each one conveyed how hard this was for him, how he didn’t want to let her go, not really.

“We shouldn’t,” he rasped finally. His words sounded unconvincing even to his own ears, his voice husky and low despite everything. Sinful.

“Why?” Nesta breathed—her first word in hours coming out hoarse. Her fingers curled around his wrist where it still gripped her hip—holding him there.

“You know why. We can’t—”

“This makes me feel,” she whispered, her words breaking. And that was pleading in her voice. “You—”

“You’ll regret it tomorrow,” Cassian tried to explain, cutting her off because he had done this. He had fucked his way through enough females post-battle to know what she was doing. He understood the desperation for anything that would pierce through that pressing numbness that descended after bloodshed, but he also knew the disappointment that would chase it when she realised that pleasure didn’t last. 

Cassian couldn’t sacrifice the progress they had made for a few moments of pleasure. Not now... not when they had come so far. 

Nesta’s fingers slid down to his palm, the flat of her small hand pressing against his, encouraging him to slide up under her nightdress. He hissed—her thigh, her hip, her waist were sinfully smooth beneath his callouses. “I won’t regret it,” she promised. “You won’t either.”

Cassian studied her—the want in her eyes. What would happen if he denied her? Would he lose the progress they had made anyway? What if his rejection stacked that icy wall against him and she shut down the end of her bond again? He couldn’t bare the thought of it—of her barbed insults and the indifferent way she had treated him. He couldn’t do that again. Not ever. He had been slowly gaining on Nesta Archeron inch by inch, and he’d be damned if they started moving backwards. 

It was a risk either way. 

His greed won out.

Nesta’s mouth immediately yielded to him when he kissed her again, and this time it was her that moaned, the sound a strangled surprise in the back of her throat. Almost as if she hadn’t expected him to give in. _Almost_.

“Promise me,” Cassian murmured, his lips now on her neck as he propped himself over her. He allowed himself a moment to do what he’d fantasised about more times than he could count—graze his nose slowly from her collarbone to the nape of her neck—and relished in the way that she shuddered beneath him. “I don’t expect anything from you, this can just be... this. A one off. But promise you won’t freeze me out. That we won’t go back to before. That things won’t be cold between us.”

Pressing a kiss behind her ear, Nesta breathed another moan as he chased it all the way to the pulse point beneath her jaw. He sucked, feeling the flutter of life against his tongue—her body as it arched into him. 

“I promise,” Nesta panted finally, her fingers curling around the strands of his damp hair. She tugged, telling him what she wanted, the words singing in the air between them; _more, more, more._

As if in response, his blood surged, singing what it always sung—her name, over and over. The name he heard on the wind. Everywhere he went. _Nesta, Nesta, Nesta._

“Good,” Cassian rasped into Nesta’s skin, his lips imprinting on the shell of her ear. He waited until goosebumps littered her skin and then he pulled back to stare into those blue, blue eyes to make his own promise. He hoped it would undo her as much as it undid him. “I’m going to make you feel good,” he told her. “I’m going to make the numbness go away, ok sweetheart?”

Something _moved_ behind the surface of Nesta’s irises as she shivered. And this time it wasn’t from the cold or from shock; it was hot anticipation and want and… her breath caught as his palm traversed along her now warm side, along the dip of her waist, hitching the material of her nightgown up, up, up. 

Her fingers tightened in his hair as his movements turned light. As his fingers trailed from the underside of her breasts all the way down her side to the top of her thigh, coaxing her to shudder—for every nerve ending to sing.

Their kiss was searing and desperate when she pulled his face back down to hers. All around him, Cassian could smell the all-consuming scent of her. It was as intoxicating as any drug and he couldn’t help but cave, rolling his hips into hers, desperate for some sort of relief. He had never been this hard in his life, had never wanted anybody like this in the long time he had been alive. He needed to feel her skin against his, the sensation suddenly as vital as breathing— 

“Off,” he growled into Nesta’s mouth, tugging her nightgown over her head and tossing it away. He flared his wings, lifting the heavy blankets so he could kick them down to their ankles. and—

Cassian swore at the sight before him. Nesta was beautiful. Where his skin was golden and marred with scars, hers was cream and unblemished—untouched—and her breasts… Cassian’s mouth turned dry and his insides twisted. They were far better than the inferior image he’d conjured in his mind, even as he pyrite glittered tauntingly between them, as if to say; _I was here first._

With a soft snarl, Cassian reverently dragged his fingers over the smooth plains of Nesta’s stomach, watching her abdominal muscles tense, mesmerised.

“You’re perfect,” he told her with hoarse honesty, cupping the breast closest to the mattress as he took the other dusky nipple into his mouth. He sucked and teased it with the flat of his tongue, relishing in her sharp inhalation of breath… the way her fingers desperately wound their way through his hair again and again. “These are perfect. You have no idea how perfect you are, Nesta.”

A flicker of… _something_ sparked down that bond. It was the first he had truly felt of Nesta in hours and Cassian tried to clamp down on that emotion, to dissect it, desperate to hold on to that sensation of… surprise. It was surprise, Cassian realised. As if she did not expect him to say that, let alone think it. 

So, Cassian pushed back everything—his sincerity and awe and want for her and _only_ her. And then he stared up at her with what he knew were dark eyes and scraped the peak of her nipple with his teeth.

A shuddered moan skittered the air around them and Cassian watched Nesta’s pupils dilate with a want that had his heart kicking in his chest. It was that sensation which sparked her into action, her hands feverish as they grappled at the material of his tunic, tugging at it until it was discarded on the floor beside the bed. Then her hands were on his chest, those lithe fingers feverish as they explored the hard lines of his stomach… the silvery scar that ran from his sternum to his lower abdomen.

Burying his head in her cleavage to stifle a groan, Cassian listened to the hammering of her heart as she followed the fine train of hair that started at his naval. In a desperate plea to distract himself from her touch—to distract _her_ —Cassian cupped and squeezed her breasts, rolling his fingers over her nipples until her breath stuttered and her hands stilled just as they grazed the waistband of his pants. 

Knowing that his restraint would melt if she wrapped her hand around him, Cassian began to press a path of open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. They were both still lying on their sides and he lifted his body, coaxing her leg against the mattress into a right angle just above his hip so he was cradled between them. 

When he hoisted the leg slung over his waist up into a right angle and pressed it up into the blanket with a splayed palm on her knee, Nesta realised what he intended to do. He felt her waver and stiffen, her body going rigid against him, that bond constricting. So Cassian stilled too, taking the time to brush his lips over the right wing of her hip—to savour the taste of her skin against his tongue. To soothe away her hesitancy, somehow knowing that the vulnerability of him sliding down between her legs made her uncomfortable. 

The gravity of it hit him then, that Nesta had never done this sober. And Cassian had no idea whether she had even experienced _this_ before—whether she had found pleasure in it. Did not know whether the many one-night stands had bothered to have her clenching around them before they finished themselves of.

Pain sparked as fingernails bit into his shoulders in warning, but Cassian only waited patiently, kissing and soothing away that concern until she relaxed around him. Some animalistic, masochistic part of him hoped that she’d marked him there—that tomorrow he would look in the mirror and see the proof of what they had done. He’d wear those silver half moon circles proudly, more so than any Illyrian tattoo. If only Fae bodies didn’t heal so quickly…

Placing a final kiss to her lower abdomen, Cassian grazed a downward path with the tip of nose until he was hovering just over her centre. Until his head was resting on her thigh.

He couldn’t stop the groan that tumbled out of him at the scent of her. “Gods, sweetheart, I can smell how wet you are.”

The words stretched out between them until everything was pulled taut. Nesta’s hands had moved from his shoulders back to his hair. When he spoke, her fingers slid uncertainly through the damp strands without finding purchase. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was blushing. He knew her well enough by now.  


But instead of swiping his tongue through her folds, Cassian reached up to run his mouth over the top-most part of the inside of her thigh. The movement was leisurely and unhurried despite the roaring of blood in Cassian’s ears. Because he had thought about this enough since having met Nesta to know how he wanted this to go. Nesta had spent a year fucking and chasing release and Cassian would not be another notch in her bedpost. By the time he was done, he wanted her squirming and moaning beneath him. He wanted her to anticipate his touch rather than merely using him to press the right buttons. He wanted her to be consumed with it; to feel that anticipation build until she was boneless against the mattress. He wanted to be the kindle for her fire and watch her burn and burn and _burn_. 

He would not fuck her in a whirlwind of limbs and snarled, panting breath. She had done that. He would do something different—just for her. 

So, Cassian made Nesta wait. With each brush of his lips he edged closer to her centre, moving from her thigh to her lower abdomen, his tongue swiping against creamy skin after every kiss until finally— _finally_ —she trembled. 

The movement travelled between them, vibrating down the thin tie that roped around his ribcage. A soft growl rumbled from the back of Cassian’s throat at the sensation, his grip tightening on her hip as he ghosted over her centre, his breath a phantom caress on her skin. 

Yet, he still took the time to pause, letting a second stretch out into a moment—until Nesta’s fingers pressed into his scalp in anticipation. The touch was light but it spoke volumes, the movement more certain. Still Cassian made her wait, trying to calm the desire thrumming through his blood which wanted to spark him into movement—to devour her whole.

Those fingers twisted through his hair and that restraint dissolved as Cassian reached forward and swiped the flat of his tongue through her folds. The action was slow and premeditated, his touch gentle. For a moment, Nesta went preternaturally still, but then her breath stuttered as he did it again and then again, her hips tilting towards him of their own accord. 

It was silent plea for more and a moan tumbled out of him, his chest rumbling as he moved closer, locking his lips around that bundle of nerves. Nesta’s breath caught again and again and Cassian catalogued it all—every movement, every intake of air—using her body language to dissect what she liked and didn’t like, lazily drinking her in until that bond widened and roared at each leisurely stroke. 

It was this that Cassian had imagined over anything else. He had fantasised about going down on Nesta more than burying himself inside of her—more than her wrapping her lips around him, or the way her tongue would feel when it ran along the underside of his cock. So, Cassian took his time tasting every inch of her, and only when he had her panting did he pick up the pace; drawing circles and fluttering rhythms across her flesh, licking a path from top to bottom until she was writhing beneath him, edging her closer and closer to breaking point, letting that swell build inside of her until even he could feel it in the air around them—a tangible, living _thing_.

And down that tether Cassian felt the truth in every whimper... every moan. That alone nearly had him unravelling. Never before had he felt her so keenly, and Cassian had to fight the urge to drop his hold on her leg to wrap his hand around himself and relieve the pressure. He was rock hard, and even though his cock twitched with each burn of pleasure that flooded between them, he didn’t dare divert his focus from her. Didn’t dare make this about him when it needed to be about her. 

Cassian had never been this turned on without having been touched before. He had never been this turned on _period_ , and he didn’t trust himself not to cave if he so much as grazed the tent in his pants. And the knowledge that earlier she had moved to slide her hand beneath his waistband… just the thought of those cool, slim fingers wrapping around the length of him made his cock throb and his heart stutter.

Growling to rid himself of the image, Cassian sucked her folds into his mouth. The distraction didn't work. Nesta cried out and the sound had his hips thrusting, pleasure robbing him of any other sensation despite the fact that he was met with nothing but air. The sound was sharp and desperate and perfect, and he knew that he could do this all day; bringing her to completion over and over until she couldn’t take it anymore. 

“You taste incredible,” Cassian groaned reverently, pulling away for the first time since he’d slipped down between her legs. His lips made a gentle smack against her wet flesh and Nesta whimpered, the sound a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. 

Another long lick followed by slow, wet kisses to her thighs—anywhere but her swollen clit.

He still wanted her to beg. He needed her to, and she wasn’t there yet.

Coaxing her onto her back, Cassian carefully hooked her legs over his arms so they avoided his wings. He had a feeling that if Nesta even so much as brushed them that something would snap inside of him; a beast unleashed.

Spreading her legs wider, Cassian reached up to cup her breasts, satisfaction thrumming through him as she arched into his touch. 

Staring up at her with dark eyes, Cassian looked at her for the first time since he’d slipped between her legs. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her pink lips parted. He wished she’d open them; he wanted to be met with that depthless blue that latched onto his soul and made it hard to breathe.

“Fuck Nesta,” he groaned, his voice gravelly as he gathered her wetness on his tongue, drawing broad circles before sucking the bud into his mouth. “I could do this all day just to hear you moan.”

Nesta whimpered at the words, the sound wild and untamed against his ears, but her eyes remained squeezed shut. Gently, he dragged his fingers through her wet folds, purposefully running them over the sides of her clit, relishing in the way that her hips jerked at the touch. At the way that bond continued to widen, light spilling into the inky dark.

A wave of fresh pleasure coursed through him.

“That’s it,” Cassian murmured huskily, slipping a finger inside of her. He bit back a groan—wishing it was his cock easing into her. “I want you to come for me, sweetheart.”

Nesta mewled as he brought his mouth back to her. Curling a finger inside of her, Cassian focussed his attention on drawing wide circles with his mouth, coaxing strangled throaty moans as his finger and tongue worked in tandem. 

Only when Nesta’s cries were a steady beat and her fingers were yanking at his hair, did he add another finger.

“ _Oh_ ,” Nesta whimpered, her head rising from the pillows as he hooked his fingers inside of her at the same time that he drew her folds into his mouth. As he rolled her nipple between his fingers with his spare hand and dared another look up at her. 

He groaned as those blue, blue eyes connected with his. They were glassy and swimming in the faelight, utterly mesmerising as her face contorted with pleasure. Nesta had never looked at him like that before; so open and vulnerable and _soft_.

It only lasted a moment and then Nesta’s head had dropped back onto the pillow in concession of the pleasure coursing through her—through him. It urged him to work faster, to continue his attention on that bundle of nerves that was hurtling her to release. As he splayed his palm on her flat stomach and relished the way it spasmed beneath his touch with every swipe and lick and suck. 

When she rocked against him, Cassian’s moan was so coarse that Nesta clutched at his head with a near death grip. She held him tightly as the sound vibrated through her, but then Cassian was scraping his teeth lightly over her clit before sucking it into his mouth and Nesta cried out. Her legs attempted to yank out of his grasp to clamp around his head with a strength Cassian should have predicted for, but he managed to pin her down, holding her open. 

“Cassian,” Nesta gasped—finally, finally saying his name out loud—her voice breaking and desperate as she tried to push her hips towards his mouth, begging. She was begging him now. “ _Cassian_.”

“Yes,’ he growled, sensing how close she was. “That’s it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

He felt her walls grip around his fingers like a vice. Felt something peak inside of her—

And then Cassian slowed everything down. His fingers slid in and out of her, pushing in to the hilt in long, drawn out strokes as his tongue circled her—as that preternatural stillness seized her again. Cassian heard the break in her moans as that cresting pleasure suspended above them, ready to crash down. Felt the pleasure course through him so fiercely that for a moment he mistook it for his own—

The sudden cry that unleashed itself on the room was a sound that Cassian had never dreamed would come from Nesta’s mouth. He stroked her steadily through the waves of pleasure as she shattered against his tongue, convulsing beneath him again and again until her whimpers gave way to shuddering gasps. Until she shuddered from the intensity of it, her hands pushing his head away. Cassian allowed her limp and panting body to melt into the mattress as he pressed kisses to the bare skin of her thighs. Her fingers were back in his hair again, running through the strands that had dried into curls before she tugged gently, urging him upwards.

Swiping at his wet mouth, Cassian crawled back up beside her, pulling the blankets with him. 

To his satisfaction, Nesta had thrown an arm across her flushed face and her chest was heaving, as if she were at loss for air. She didn’t resist when he moved her arm to the pillow, threading his fingers through hers.

She moaned softly against his lips as he kissed her. The sound was content—another noise he’d never heard from her before—and the knowledge that he had caused her to feel that way left him dizzy. Surprise speared through him as her hand curved around the back of his neck, keeping him there, deepening the kiss as she tasted herself on his tongue.

And down that bond, beyond the sated satisfaction and pleasure was amusement, as if she sensed his surprise and delighted in it.

“Ok?” he asked hoarsely when he finally pulled away. He rolled to the side, taking her with him, his hand splayed on the underside of her thigh, his wing thrown over her body like a blanket.

Nesta’s eyes were glazed as she hummed in reply, and a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she skimmed her free hand down his bare chest to his stomach and his muscled twitched under her touch. 

Locking her leg firmly around his hips, Nesta pulled him flush against her. He snarled softly against her neck when she ground into his erection. His blood was boiling again, a heat ignited in his very core, and it was an entire feat of its own that he managed to tear himself away from her, catching her hand just as those fingers dipped to slip between the hem of his pants. 

He watched Nesta frown, and the expression on her face was so unchecked that something twisted inside him. 

She wanted to touch him. She wanted more...

“I said I’d make _you_ feel good,” he rasped in explanation, bringing her hand to his lips so he could press his mouth to her knuckles

When he was done, he gently ran a hand over her hair. “Sleep, Nesta. Your body needs to rest.”

“What? No,” Nesta protested, that defiance he had missed for the last few hours firing across her expression.

But he just pulled her closer to him, and unable to help himself—knowing that he might not get another chance—he kissed her again. It was slow and tender, his fingers pushing back her damp hair from her face. It was a kiss to soothe rather than to arouse, even as his cock throbbed painfully against his stomach. His thumb brushed an arc across the glowing skin of her cheek, savouring the ability to touch her like this; without fear of her pushing him away, or worse, punching him in the gut.

“Sleep,” he urged again, wrapping his wing tighter around her—cocooning them. He felt Nesta’s body start to relax into the mattress, felt the blanket of sleep settle over her in that post-climactic haze. He pressed his mouth to her forehead—now warm beneath his lips, as if he had chased away the cold. “I promise I’ll be here when you wake up.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I hope you all enjoyed ACOSF! I've been super inspired to write Nessian since and this chapter somehow ended up being 15k. I hope you all enjoy it, I can't wait to read your comments!
> 
> Just FYI, I'll now be updating every other Sunday so make sure you subscribe to this story so you can get an email when I update :)

** Chapter Thirty-One  
Nesta **

Cassian hadn’t lied, he was there when she woke up. They had moved position in the night; his breathing now deep and even against the nape of her neck, his body wrapped tight around her. His inked arm was stark against her pale skin from where it was slung over her hip and his body was wonderfully warm, his heartbeat an echo of hers. 

His wing was still cocooning her, the reddish brown membrane shielding her from the morning light. Nesta wanted to touch it, to trace the leathery skin, the soft, fine hair and the curved fingers of bone, but she knew better. She wouldn’t dare cross that line, especially not with Cassian who had nearly lost his wings twice over. In her old, human life, Nesta would have balked at those mighty wings that spanned from his back, but in this new life—the life that had been forced upon her, rather than given—she had learnt to find them beautiful. 

Burying her face in the pillow, Nesta was thankful for the weight against her tired eyes. She had been expecting to wake up numb and hollow but she just felt exhausted.Yesterday’s events had wrung her out entirely and the image of those girls was still burnt into her retinas; their broken bodies and wings twisted into those rusty cages. Of Ailie as she was dragged across the clearing, her body used to sate male desire without any thought of the being who dwelled inside of it. Those moments would haunt Nesta for the rest of her immortal life. If she could not heal them today, those girls might never taste the wind beneath their wings again. And even though the males had deserved to take have their lives taken from them, it felt like Nesta had given them the easy way out. A swift death in no way compensated for immortal trauma.

Nesta did not want to think about what would have happened if Maya had not found them. Would all of those girls have ended up dead with their blood in that pit? 

Horror wound through Nesta, fresh and sharp. It was awful but it was a feeling, so Nesta clung on to it, kept it trapped beneath an invisible, clawed paw. Did not stifle it.

Cassian’s breathing changed as he rose to consciousness. His arm tightened reflexively around herand for a moment Nesta panicked at what was going to happen next. She didn’t know how to do this… to be normal. Every instinct was screaming at her to protect herself by throwing up a wall and spitting venom. But she had promised Cassian and after last night… she had never let anybody look after her in that way; had never even allowed her sisters to see her that vulnerable. And then in bed… well, that was something else entirely. None of the males she had bedded had bothered to coax those noises from her. Oh Gods, the sounds she had made. Blood rushed to Nesta’s cheeks even as her toes curled and desire thrummed through her as her body remembered the sensation of his mouth between her legs. She had _begged_ him— 

“Morning,” Cassian’s voice was a sleepy, pleasant rasp in her ear that sent a shiver shuddering through her. “Did you sleep?”

Keeping her gaze straight ahead, Nesta nodded. She couldn't bear the thought of him seeing her blush, not even after last night. 

There was a long, hesitant pause, which only broke when the sheets rustled and Cassian made to move away from her.

Nesta’s fingers curled instinctively around his arm before she could even think, keeping him there, not ready to let go of him yet. She felt his surprise flicker between them but Cassian only pressed his chest back against her, his nose pressing against her hair, his wing curving.

Her hand sought for his hand, her fingers threading through his so they lay clasped against her stomach.

Words lodged themselves in her throat and her heart started to beat erratically. But she had to do this. She had to speak. She had promised him. The male who had given her everything. Who had fought for her when nobody else had. 

_I don’t expect anything from you, this can just be... this. A one off. But promise you won’t freeze me out. That we won’t go back to before. That things won’t be cold between us._

She opened her mouth and she felt hope flicker down that tether. 

Something in her collapsed. “I—”

And then Cassian tensed. Nesta felt the change in him, the way his whole body went taut. She turned in concern, letting him roll onto his back this time, his wing peeling back to reveal the grey morning light that spilled through the gap in the thick curtains. His eyes were closed and… that was irritation across his face. 

“What is it?”

It was a moment before Cassian loosed a breath and opened his eyes. “Feyre, Rhys and Az will be here in half an hour.”

_Oh_. The mention of her sister and her mate was enough to ruin whatever moment they could have shared. So Nesta asked, “You don’t mind him going into your head like that?”

Cassian’s smile was crooked, his eyes still sleepy as he turned his head to look at her. His black hair was a tangle across the pillow and Nesta wanted to run her fingers through it until he purred. “You get used to it.”

Staring up at the ceiling, Nesta resolutely traced the spider crack above her rather than hold his gaze. Somehow he made her blood heat even more in the morning, so much so that it hurt. “Why Feyre?”

‘I imagine she’s worried about you.”

Nesta scowled. “I don’t need a fuss.”

“I know,” he admitted. “I’m sorry. But we need to decide what to do next. Taking the girls out of Ironcrest… Marsh will not take the interference lightly. Azriel needs to interrogate that male from Windhaven as soon as possible so we know what to plan going forward. It was smart tying him up like that.”

Nesta nodded but didn’t say anything. She knew Cassian was right. Knew that if this kind of brutality hadn’t called for Rhys she would have judged them all for it. Knew that there was so much to do—she had so many wings to heal. But her magic needed to replenish itself… She could feel it in her veins but it wasn’t as strong as it usually was. She needed some of Frawley’s brew. She needed to pummel her fists into something—so she could process what had happened. She needed to make herself feel rage and anger in the sparring ring.

She needed to feel _something_ because she could barely feel anything at all.

“Can we train soon? I need—” She blew out a breath, breaking off. How did she even start to explain how it made her feel? That it made her feel _strong,_ even when she was flung to the floor to eat dirt. 

“It helps me work through things, too,” Cassian conceded softly. “Perhaps we should get you sparring against Az soon. It would do you good to fight against someone other than me. A good warrior trains against multiple opponents.”

Cassian rolled onto his side to study her, bending his arm behind him so his head could rest on his bicep. Nesta tried not to feel self-conscious, but failed. She pushed her tangled hair from her face, wincing as her fingers snagged on the knots. She hadn’t brushed it last night, not after—

“How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.” In the periphery of her vision, she saw Cassian’s dark eyebrows flick upwards, imploring. And Nesta again remembered his words; _Promise you won’t freeze me out._ “Better than yesterday.”

“I would have killed them for what they did. You did the right thing.”

Silence settled over them again, but that relentless gaze did not falter from her face for one second. 

“You’re staring.” The words weren’t clipped or lifeless. They were simple. Truth.

Cassian was always honest with her but recently it was like he’d loosened the leash on his thoughts. She wanted to do the same. To try, at least.

_I’m prepared to work for it—your forgiveness, Nesta. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll show you that my apology wasn’t just words, if you’ll let me._

How did Nesta explain that she needed his forgiveness, too? That she had to work for the forgiveness of so many others that the terror of it burned her insides until she was alight with the horror of it?

Everyone expected her to be cruel but she didn’t want to be that anymore. Did not like the mould she been forced into by her mother and forced into by herself.

“You always look beautiful, but I think you might be at your most beautiful in the morning.”

The words wrenched Nesta out of her thoughts and she was so surprised that her head snapped to the side. 

She blinked. She had a fraction of a second to rally that comeback. To decide what she wanted to say—

“Is that a convoluted way of telling me you like me in your bed?”

Those eyes darkened a fraction from where they were locked on her. Nesta felt that tug, begging her to close the distance. To replace the faint taste of him in her mouth with something fresh. To remember the way his damp hair had felt in her fingers. The sensation of his callouses scraping over her breasts. The touch of his tongue between her thighs—

Desire coiled deep in her belly—lower—and Nesta knew Cassian sensed the change in her. Knew from the way his nostrils flared slightly and everything else in him stilled. 

For a moment, Nesta thought he looked wholly like an apex predator, but then something shuttered and that expression was exchanged for something more sincere, even if it looked a little pained. “No, it’s just the truth. I don’t believe I’ve ever given you the impression that I don’t want you in my bed. Or that I find you more attractive than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Then Cassian was moving, his wings tucking in tightly before they fanned out to balance him as he got off the huge bed. As if he didn’t want her to see the expression his words had wrought across her face—the frown. He hadn’t let her touch him last night. How could he be that attracted to her and not want some sort of relief?

“We need to get up,” he said shortly. His golden tan back gobbled up the ink of his tattoos. “I’ll feed Sala.”

Nesta nodded. She wasn’t sure what to say. She heard Cassian’s feet pad across the carpet. Heard Sala shake and then Cassian laugh softly in a way that told Nesta that Sala had just knocked her head against his chiselled stomach.

She was still staring at the ceiling when Cassian came back ten minutes later with two steaming mugs of Frawley’s tonic tea and a grey towel slung over his shoulder. He smelt fresh and free of sleep, and half of his dark hair was tied back into a loose knot.

Sala padded back into the room behind him and jumped onto the bed, nestling down against Nesta’s side as if she was sleepy from whatever breakfast Cassian had found for her. The manticore watched Cassian as she did it, as if challenging the Illyrian to bark at her to get down. But Cassian only shook his head in amusement as he placed one of the blue mugs on the bedside table nearest her.

“You might want to shower,” Cassian told Nesta. He bent to pick up her nightgown from the floor and dangled it teasingly from a finger. 

Nesta refrained from hissing at him as he shot her a charming grin that was all teeth. 

He was wearing black pants with an even darker tunic thrown over the top, but Nesta didn’t doubt that with one tap of his siphons he’d be covered in scales—a rippling serpent warrior.

“Are you trying to tell me that I smell?”

Cassian barked a laugh. “I think you smell heavenly, but Rhys and Az—and possibly Feyre—will scent what we did if we don’t both shower.” He winced. “They might still scent it anyway.”

Nesta sat up at that, holding the covers to her bare chest. 

“They will _what?”_ she hissed as she snatched the material from him. Nesta had known that fae had a keen sense of smell, especially the males. After all, it had only taken Cassian one sniff to scent the multiple males she had taken in that awful apartment of hers. Nesta had always thought that was down to the fact that she hadn’t bathed or bothered to change the bedsheets. But to _have_ bathed and still be covered in each other’s scent? Was that normal?

She frowned but Cassian just held up his hands as if he were expecting a dagger to the heart. “Sorry sweetheart, it’s fae bullshit I know, but it’s the way it works.”

Nesta’s face burned as she pulled her nightgown over her head. Cassian’s eyes were solely on her breasts when she looked back at him to snap, “It’s a complete invasion of privacy.”

“I agree,” Cassian said slowly, eventually tearing his gaze from her to stare intently at the wall opposite instead. His ever-changing eyes were a honey brown that morning with only sporadic flecks of ocean green. “But if you want to at least try and avoid any prying questions, you best get in the tub whilst I air out the bungalow.”

* * *

Star-flecked magic outside the front of the house alerted Nesta to Rhys, Feyre and Azriel’s arrival. She did not bother to get up from where she sat at the vanity, only continued to braid her hair back into a tight coronet. Sala shot to her feet at the first sense of the High Lord’s magic but when she saw Nesta merely stiffen rather than seek sanctuary in the safety of the mountains, the beast sat back down on her haunches. The manticore’s golden eyes trained themselves on the bedroom door that stood slightly ajar, waiting to protect.

Murmured voices floated into the living room. Deep and cold, smooth and arrogant, high and worried—the latter her sister. Nesta felt that numbness start to settle over her. It had started to seep through the cracks as soon as she had stepped into the shower and everything had fallen silent, leaving room for memory and thoughts to flood in. Nesta wished Cassian was with her. Wished he was teasing and taunting. Wished his mouth was on her skin. Wished that he would make her feel like she had last night. It had been… intoxicating. Life breathing. Vital. And Nesta knew somehow, that it would never be better with anyone else—

A knock at the door had Nesta turning. Feyre stood uncertainly at the threshold. Her eyes widened when she spied Sala. The manticore had launched to her feet, her tail flicking gently from side-to-side. 

Nesta rested her hand on the beast’s head. “This is my sister,” she told the manticore brusquely. Then, to Feyre she added, “This is Sala.”

From the way Feyre’s eyes had turned as round as saucers, Nesta could tell her sister was already cataloguing everything she could about the beast so she could paint her later. Nesta allowed Feyre the luxury, turning back to the mirror as her sister studied the sleek shades of sand to the beast’s fur and the gilded shine in Sala’s eyes.

“She’s beautiful,” Feyre breathed. “Rhys mentioned she’d appeared where you saved Mas, but I didn’t realise quite how majestic she’d be.”

The awe in her sister’s voice sunk into that numbness and Nesta felt a faint flicker of appreciation. Nesta tried to dig her claws into it and hold on—she desperately wanted to feel. Cassian had brought her back from the depthless bottom last night but she was already teetering on the precipice. Nesta needed to find him if she had even the faintest hope of healing those girls today. Needed to be nearer to him, regardless. 

“Yesterday sounded horrible.”

Nesta did not allow their eyes to meet in the mirror as she slid the last of her hairpins into place. “It was.”

Striding across the room, Feyre reached for Nesta’s hands and squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“That you had to experience it. That those girls had to experience it.” Her sister blew out a breath. “I’m just… sorry.”

Nesta swallowed thickly, but she squeezed Feyre’s fingers back. 

She was trying. 

She would try. 

“Me too.”

* * *

Both the Shadowsinger and Rhysand stilled as the manticore padded into the room beside Nesta. The beast made no move on them apart from raking her all-seeing eyes over each of them as Nesta took a seat at the far end of the couch. Sala’s tail silently blazed as she surveyed the males but she only stuck to Nesta like a shadow, her sandy ears pricked forward and alert as she sat back on her haunches.

“Beautiful,” Azriel remarked quietly to Nesta from where he stood by the hearth. “Her name is Sala?”

“Yes,” Nesta said. 

“May I?” Azriel asked, a curious tendril of shadow peeking over his shoulder before it began to climb across the room.

The drop of his chin towards Sala was so slight that most would have missed it, but Nesta only nodded. 

The shadow unfurled and straightened like an arm as it curiously crossed the room towards the manticore. Sala was as still as a statue, her expression the picture of regal boredom as she blatantly stared down Rhys. The darkness was inches away from her when she moved as swift as an asp, a paw raking through the shadows, slashing with five deathly claws. The movement was so alert it belied the beast’s feigned disinterest and all of them watched the shadows disperse as if they were nothing but smoke, before they regrouped, weaving around to gather back at Azriel’s ear, whispering. 

A smile tugged at the Shadowsinger’s mouth. “She’s certainly deadly.”

A chuckle sounded as Cassian he stepped through the right-hand archway that led to the kitchen. He was carrying a mug of tea and he floated it across to Nesta on a crimson wind, his siphons glinting softly. “To her enemies she is, but to her friends she’s just a big softie, isn’t she, Nesta?”

Nesta loosed a soft snort of agreement. Unsurprisingly, Sala adored Cassian just as everyone else did, as if the beast could sense how pure of heart he was—brave and kind in a way Nesta would never be. 

As the mug came to hover in front of her, Nesta wrapped her hand around the handle. It was full to the brim with another of Frawley’s tea—Nesta’s second of the day—but rather than feel irritation at being cared for, Nesta felt nothing at all as she murmured her thanks.

“You need to eat breakfast,” Cassian commented sharply to Nesta. He took up residence on the opposite side of the U-shaped couch, his wings flaring as they settled behind the low-back. Something inside of Nesta teetered and fell at the distance between them, plummeting down, down, down… She needed his warmth against her side. Needed the comfort and reassurance of him but she could barely voice it when they were by themselves, let alone in front of his friends and her sister. Usually Cassian was like a second shadow, not halfway across the room. 

Panic sluiced through Nesta for a fraction of a second before it was swallowed by the numb. Was Cassian avoiding her after last night? Had their tumble in the sheets been done out of pity rather than want? He’d said no at first, after all— 

“Replenishing your magic will be slower if you don’t eat,” Cassian reminded Nesta firmly when she didn’t say anything. He was frowning at her and Nesta wondered if he’d felt the shift in her. If he knew what she had been thinking.

She bit back a scowl. He was right, she did need to eat. But her appetite had been near non-existent since they had landed in Ironcrest two days earlier. After they had arrived at the cottage yesterday, Cassian had firmly sat Nesta down and made her feed herself before she had been allowed to heal. He had remained steadfast by her side, his unwavering gaze burning into her like a brand as he watched her place every loaded fork into her mouth. 

The food had tasted like ash and death and it had made her stomach roil, but she had done it anyway. Fuelling her power meant eating at regular intervals, Frawley had told her sternly when Nesta had visited the cottage the week prior. Nesta might be able to recharge her power from fierce emotion when she was not too traumatised, but that didn’t mean that ordinary methods didn’t play their part, and food and rest were no exception.

A lazy snap of Rhys’s fingers summoned plates of sausages, bacon, eggs, breads and pastries onto the coffee table. Nausea swept through Nesta and she recoiled at the fat that came from the meat—of burning, cooked flesh. 

“Get rid of the meat,” Cassian snapped. Rhys blinked but waved another hand and it disappeared. 

Silence fell as Cassian loaded up a plate and rested a knife and fork atop it. It floated over to Nesta on snow-crusted pine and musk, before it settled neatly in her lap. 

“I’m starving,” Feyre announced suddenly, her voice too bright as it cut through the tense silence. She reached for her own plate and placed a sweet pastry on top.

“That won’t fuel your body,” Cassian commented sternly, but Feyre’s smile was nothing but saccharine as she raised a middle finger at him and pointedly bit into the delicacy. 

Cassian arched the dark eyebrow that was slashed through with an old scar. “You’ll regret it when you see the work we have cut out for us today.”

Feyre’s expression turned sombre as she took a seat beside Nesta, tucking her long legs up behind her. She looked to Cassian as she dusted the crumbs from her fingers. “Rhys showed us what you saw. It’s—”

“Barbaric,” Cassian finished for her, his expression suddenly stormy. “I know. The girls are at Lorrian and Frawley’s cottage in The Steppes, but we need to consider where we’re going to take them after that.”

“They can't go back to Ironcrest,” Nesta interceded sharply as she looked at each of their faces. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut to block out the memory of Ailie stumbling as that stocky male had dragged her across the clearing, but she could not allow to know just how badly she was faring. “Their trauma will not allow for them to go back there.”

“No,” Rhys assured Nesta from where he stood to the right of the hearth. “It isn’t an option to take them to any of the Illyrian camps. Velaris is the best place for them.”

Cocking her head to the side, Feyre asked her mate, “You mean to give them to Clotho.”

Rhys nodded tightly. His usual casual arrogance replaced with something worried—grave.“The library is always a sanctuary for any females who seek it. They’ll be safe there.”

Nesta wanted to ask what would happen to Maya and her daughters, but speaking was suddenly difficult, words trapped before her lungs could even take breath. She thought of all of the girls clipped wings—the messy, jagged scars from where they had fought and struggled. None of those males had been healers. Who knew what use the girls would have of their wings if Nesta did not master her power enough to call her healing light and identify the dull, shadowy tissue. 

Nesta was so immersed in her thoughts that the sensation of a dark, silken hand against her mental shields had her flinching. It took her a moment to register that it was Rhysand. 

_It would be helpful if I could see your memory, too. If you’ll allow it._

That stubborn chin rose and even though Nesta’s throat was constricted, she managed to force out, “Yes.”

Cassian snarled a warning and he stood so quickly that Nesta barely had time to register it. His wings snapped out wide and the worry and anger that curled around Nesta’s stomach scented solely of him. _“Rhysand.”_

Rhys’ violet eyes flicked to Cassian for a second, his dark eyebrows raising imperceptibly. Feyre had turned worryingly pale. Her sister’s lips parted, as if she was about to protest, but Nesta was already carving out a window from her icy, steely mental shield—enough of an opening for that blanket of darkness to enter her memory. 

Nesta did not contemplate how Rhys would be privy to how terrified she’d been when that male had pinned her to the ground. How he would learn about Tomas. How her sister would and Azriel, too. Tried not to think about how furious Cassian would be when he saw it. When he figured out that the pyrite had saved her. That she might not be here if it hadn’t exploded with power and Sala was nearby to breathe fire.

Nesta barely weathered reliving the events as she showed Rhysand everything she had, only stopping when they left the cave for Lorrian and Frawley’s. And all the while she felt herself slip and slip and slip. She curled her hands so hard that pain bit into her palms, the sensation grounding. She focussed on that pain with all of her might, willing it to stay—hoping that it would drag her out of the numbness that would suffocate her magic and stop her from healing those girls wings. 

The tang of blood rose in the air as Rhys receded from her mind. Nesta patched up that hole until it was impenetrable. Sala pressed her head into Nesta’s middle and Nesta unconsciously buried her fingers into the manticore’s ruff. 

She did not look up, only stared at her hands hidden in the fur. Concentrated on Sala’s deep, comforting purr. 

_I’m sorry_ , Rhys’s voice sounded in her head, his tone truly apologetic, as if he knew what it had cost her to allow him to see her version of the event. And Nesta didn’t need to lift her head to know that his eyes shimmered with sincerity. _Can I show the others? The information will be useful._

The dip of her chin was barely there but Rhys caught it. Still Nesta did not look up, but she knew that her sister’s mate was showing all of them her memory. Knew because Feyre stiffened and her breath caught. Heard Cassian’s soft, dangerous snarl that made the floor rumble.

A long, heavy silence followed. Nesta could hear the thoughts tumbling through their heads as they all scrabbled to find purchase. 

In the end, it was Azriel’s cold voice which sliced through the quiet. “Those bands the males are wearing are the insignia of the rebellion,” he stated. Nesta dared a look at the Shadowsinger. His face was thrust in so much shadow only his hazel eyes were a permanent light glinting through the dark.

“Yes,” Cassian confirmed gruffly.

But Azriel’s attention slid to Nesta, not his brother. “You kept a male alive. Where is he now?”

“At Lorrian and Frawley’s,” Nesta replied. “I recognised him as one of the warriors who disappeared from the patrol the day of the kerit attack on Windhaven. I thought he’d be useful. I should—” She swallowed thickly. Her tongue felt too big in her mouth and she felt stupid, because she should have been intelligent enough to keep more of the males alive. One male was good but two… it would be easier to confirm their bleated truths from the lies once Azriel began interrogating them. “I killed all of them. I didn’t think to keep more alive—”

“You did what any of us would have done,” Cassian cut in firmly. He was still shaking with a terrifying sort of fury. Both Rhys and Azriel had shifted into a stance that indicated they had noticed it, too. “All of those males deserved those deaths.”

“None of us judge you for what you did, Nesta.” Feyre’s hand on her arm was light and tentative. “Nobody would ever blame you for ending their lives—“

But Nesta shook her head. “That’s not what I mean,” she insisted, and her voice broke, the flat tone making way for something that brimmed with fervour as she remembered the way the girls had huddled in those rusty cages, their wings bent and broken, their faces already lost to the ghosts that tormented them. 

A whisper of silver moved behind her eyes, like a slow roiling serpent of mist and power. Sala shifted from where she sat beside Nesta, her focus going from relaxed to alert, as if Nesta’s magic called to her, too. 

Cassian’s siphons winked in the firelight. He was the only one who did not shift at the sight of it. Instead, he watched Nesta with a gaze that was unwavering, as if he knew that what was moving inside of her—along her veins, humming in her blood—was only a spark of what she was capable of. 

When Nesta next spoke, her voice was fervent at the same time as it was ice cold, “Those males got the easy way out.” She did not balk as everyone continued to look at her, their surprise clear. She remained tall and present. Commanding, “Those girls will harbour that trauma as long as they live. They will never be who they once were. Killing those males was wrong.”

“What you did was _deserved,”_ Cassian growled, leaning forward as if he intended to leap over the space to assure her that she was wrong, but Nesta paid his comment no heed.

“What I mean,” she plowed on, “is that those males will never suffer the consequences as keenly as those whose lives will be forever affected.” She looked directly at Rhys with a determination Nesta hadn’t thought she could summon given how distant she felt. “You need to change your law. Anybody who cuts someone’s wings gets the same punishment.”

Rhys cocked his head at Nesta, his violet eyes calculating. “That’s not a bad idea,” he admitted finally.

“Would that work?” Feyre breathed to her mate.

“You say the Illyrian’s are starting to revolt,” Nesta said shortly. “Show them you will deliver on your threats. Illyrian’s treasure their wings over anything else, do they not? If there’s a way to keep them in line it’s by publicly clipping the offenders.”

“The area is too large,” Azriel said, but his tone was contemplative. “We already struggle to uphold the laws in the more independent camps.”

Nesta set down her plate, ignoring Cassian’s pointed stare at the barely touched eggs. “You don’t need to catch every single offender. Once word starts to spread that it’s happening, they will think twice. Patrol the camps regularly enough and it should reduce the number of assaults. It won’t be an overnight change, but it could slowly start to take hold. If you partnered that with educating the girls then you are slowly and surely raising a generation of females who can think independently.”

“Said like a true visionary,” Rhys said plainly and a pride that was not her own squeezed at Nesta’s insides. 

“Az and I visited the site last night with Frawley,” Rhys continued. Cassian straightened at that, his gaze finally dragging away from her to his brother. Nesta wondered if it was because he had not been invited. “We need answers. The whole place stank of dark magic.”

“The cave leads to Marsh’s residence,” Azriel told them. “Whatever was happening there was linked to the inside. The entryway was almost undetectable but once we got inside the tunnels, the rock was lined with faelight. It’s a long trek through the warren hole but the scent of males lingered within it, so it had been used recently.”

Nesta watched the way Cassian’s expression tightened until the point of pain. “So, the royalty are involved.”

“It’s an assumption, but a logical one,” Rhys mused, but his voice was laced with a dark sort of promise that even Nesta had the sense to be wary of. “Especially given that Kallon has disappeared and nobody knows where he has scurried off to.”

Cassian whirled to his brother. “Kallon’s gone?” 

But it was Azriel who replied, “My spies confirmed it this morning. He did not return home yesterday after a supposed trip to the north of their territory to oversee the novice war-band there.”

“I knew that slimy prick was connected to it,” Cassian snarled, his fists tightening at his sides. His wings ruffled in anger.

But Feyre was frowning. “For someone who is so conniving, it surprises me that Kallon would show his hand so obviously by disappearing. Even he must know that it tells us that he played a part.”

“Or perhaps he had the sense to vanish before I could wrap my hands around his throat,” Cassian growled, but Rhys was looking contemplative, staring at his mate in a way that couldn’t be described as anything but admiration.

“Feyre is right. It is odd, but at the moment it’s all we have to go on.”

“What I want to know is why they were holding those girls in the first place,” Feyre said. Her nose wrinkled and she looked between Cassian and Nesta. “Was it the blood of previous girls that was in that pit? And if it was, why would they clip the girls wings if they were only going to kill them anyway?”

“Probably for sport,” Rhys admitted after a long, awful pause. “Given the cruelty Nesta saw, I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“We need to speak with the remaining sentry,” Azriel said to Rhys. “Get some answers out of him and hope he doesn’t lie as he breaks.”

The Shadowsinger’s voice was so glacial that Nesta immediately knew what he meant. Of the things he would do to get the male to answer. If the bastard was clever enough, he’d start speaking before Truth-Teller started to cause unimaginable, drawn out pain.

“Maya,” Nesta said out loud. Cassian’s eyes found hers before everyone else’s, almost as if he knew she had drawn breath before she had. Nesta tried not to stiffen as she became the centre of attention. Her hands started to shake, so she plunged them deeper into Sala’s ruff to disguise the movement. Tried to grapple onto reality as she began to float away again. 

The fire crackled and popped before it quieted, the scent of star-flecked night filling the room as Nesta flinched.

Nesta’s throat bobbed but she managed to stop her voice from wavering. Focussed on the rich depth of Cassian’s eyes—the eyes that had seen all of her, not just her bare form but who she _was._ “Maya knew where the girls were being held and she lived in Marsh’s residence. She must know more. Perhaps she can confirm whether some of the things the sentry says is true.”

“It makes sense to ask her,” Cassian admitted, and then launched an explanation of who Maya was to his brother’s and High Lady. 

“Then we have a plan of action,” Rhys announced. “The cave remains firmly barricaded by Frawley’s shield. That now includes the tunnel leading to Marsh’s residence.”

Nesta knew what Rhys wasn’t saying. That someone could have entered from the tunnel’s after they had left and before Rhys and Azriel came back. None of them in their haste to escort the girls to safety had thought to thoroughly explore the back of the cave. Even Cassian, who scouted every entrance and exit when he entered any room, hadn’t thought to do it.

“Cassian, Azriel, Feyre and I will go back to the cave for another inspection,” Rhys told Nesta. “I’d like to see it when it’s not so dark. Then we will join you and Mor at Lorrian and Frawley’s so we can interrogate the male and speak with Maya.”

“Mor is arriving soon,” Rhys added when Nesta dipped her chin to show she agreed. “So eat and then we go.”  
  


* * *

  
Mor arrived ten minutes later, dressed in Illyrian leathers, her long blonde hair braided on either side of her scalp before it was gathered into a thick ponytail. From the way that nobody sprang up to greet her besides Cassian, Nesta guessed that Mor had been back from the continent for a few days. Even Azriel’s shadows didn’t lift. Instead Nesta could have sworn they grew darker as Cassian swept Mor into such a fierce hug her toes left the floor.

“What did I miss?” Mor asked as Cassian set her back down on the doormat, waving a magical hand down at her body to rid herself of her shoes. She glanced sidelong at Sala who had raised to her feet with a rumbling growl as the door had opened, but Mor did not take a step backwards. She must have been told about Sala in advance—all of them must have. “I left Amren cranky back in Velaris. She’s in a meeting with the council members.”

Something inside of Nesta loosed a sigh of relief. She was not equipped to deal with Amren today—to deal with the mess that was left of their friendship.

Mor’s eyes glazed over for a second as Rhys mentally filled her in. When she blinked back to the present, that beautiful face was no longer radiant but dull.

Nesta wondered if she was thinking about her own trauma. 

“Mor will take you and Sala to Lorrian and Frawley’s,” Feyre said quietly to Nesta. “Unless you wish to come with us to the cave again?”

Nesta shook her head too quickly but she did not care. “I’ll go to the cottage.”

Feyre nodded. “That’s just as well. I don’t have experience winnowing animals, but Mor does.”

Nesta looked to Mor, who explained with a breezy shrug, “I helped to shift cavalry during the war.”

“Mor just likes to be around the horses,” Cassian drawled from across the room. He was still perched on the opposite side of the couch, but his eyes had not left Nesta—frantic to engage her. To get the haunted look from her eyes. “Or anything furry.”

A soft snort loosed from the blonde. When she stuck a finger up at Cassian, he barked a laugh.

“I want a manticore,” Mor admitted shamelessly with a jut of a plump lip. She held her hand out to Nesta, but from the way the blonde bounced on her heels, Nesta could tell that it was taking all of Mor’s self-restraint not to jump across the room and pet Sala. “Have you gone flying with her yet?”

“Yes,” Nesta replied simply as she rose from the couch, because she couldn’t summon the energy to embellish. 

“How was it?” Mor asked, and her voice—it was a little breathless. Full of awe, Nesta realised. Perhaps Mor, too, found freedom beneath the beat of a horse’s hooves. Understood the appeal of Sala in a way none of the others in the room did, even if the manticore was a different species entirely.

“Freeing,” Nesta supplied as she walked over to Mor, because there were no other words for it apart for synonyms of the same.

Turning, she called for Sala. The manticore rose, stretching deliberately—yawning to showcase that deadly maw. She slunk away from Feyre, past the Shadowsinger and Rhys until she reached Cassian. She hopped onto her hindquarters, one ginormous paw balancing on Cassian’s knee to knock her head to his in goodbye, her body effortlessly agile despite the size of her. 

Cassian’s low chuckle followed Nesta as Sala came to her side. The manticore stared at Mor for a touch too long, that large head cocking slightly to the side, the silver flame at her tail blazing through the air.

“Hold on tightly to her,” Mor instructed to Nesta and then wind whipped around them as they tumbled through the spaces between realms.

And then it all stopped, the world righted and they were surrounded by pine and soft dappled light that filtered through the needles. 

Mor had winnowed them fifteen or so metres from the house and Nesta spied the honeysuckle that tangled and weaved its way across the front-facing wall. Today the flowers were a riot of magenta, softened by muted burnt orange and buttery yellow—a sunrise against the whitewash.

It was a stark contrast to the dark and desperation of that cave. Birdsong travelled on the soft breeze, a tranquil melody that Nesta tried to cling onto—to haul her out of the haunted memories in her mind.

Sala nudged her nose against Nesta’s hand and made a beseeching noise in the back of her throat. Nesta blinked.

“Don’t let the hard days win,” Mor said quietly to Nesta—her voice softer and more understanding than any other time the blonde had spoken to her.

When Nesta summoned the energy to drag her head upwards to look at Mor, her sister’s friend shot her a small smile. “Do you think you have enough magic to heal the girls wings?”

Nesta managed to lift a shoulder. “I’m going to try.”

“Can I watch?”

The request was so genuine that Nesta couldn’t help but frown. Neither of them had spent time with one another before, and certainly not alone. Nesta supposed she deserved Mor’s hostility. Shame already burned when she thought of the way that she had spoken to Cassian. The words she had said. And even though Cassian had hidden Nesta from Mor, Nesta could not blame the blonde for protecting her friend. Had Nesta not done the same to Kallon when he’d berated Cassian for being lesser Fae? 

And whilst Cassian had treated Nesta badly when it came to Mor—driven her away by making her feel second best—Nesta made the split second decision to move forward. To trust Cassian. If he said nothing existed between he and Mor then she would trust him in that. She had felt the truth of his statement a few nights prior after all, the sensation light in her stomach rather than the heaviness of lies and deceit.

So, Nesta nodded. And even though every movement and word felt like wading through mud, Nesta hoped she came across as sincere as she said, “If you like.”

“I always wished I had more healing magic,” Mor confessed as Caer came bounding out of the cottage. The blonde’s eyes widened with delight but she did not quicken her stride on her long, beautiful legs. “I prefer that to the killing. Knowing how to defend yourself is important, of course, but I’d rather give life than take it away.”

Nesta peered up at the blonde. Nesta was tall but Mor still had a few inches on her—the model of grace and beauty. Luscious curves and a face to rival the Mother. Yet… for once, Nesta saw something else in Mor that tunnelled beneath the surface; a common language between them. A shared truth. “I can understand that,” Nesta said. She cleared her throat. “What I mean is that I’m the same. I would give up my silver flames if I could keep my healing magic. I don’t want any more death.”

“The magic chooses us rather than the other way around unfortunately,” Mor said with a sigh, as if she had contemplated her power on many occasions. Then, a sideways glance. “You fight like Cassian, you know.”

Nesta’s nose wrinkled. “I’m barely trained.”

But Mor shook her head, her loose hair swaying from where it was gathered at the back of her head. “It’s not that. It’s the _way_ you fight. Cassian goes into battle like he’s performing a well-orchestrated dance. Despite being so broad and muscular, the way he moves when he fights is so…fluid. It’s oddly beautiful. You fight in the same way.”

“If you ever want a female sparring partner,” Mor continued, “then I’d be happy to spar with you.”

That drew Nesta out of the darkness. She blinked in surprise and she opened her mouth to respond, but Frawley was walking out of the front door to meet them.

“There you are,” the witch clipped. As she approached, Frawley’s skirts swished in the usual swirl of smoke that was similar to the magic Nesta had seen Frawley use the day before. 

“Morrigan,” Frawley nodded brusquely in greeting. 

“Hello Frawley,” Mor chirped, bowing her golden head. “It’s been a long while.”

“It has,” Frawley replied. “Are you here for the girls or because you wish to pet Caer?”

Morrigan had already bent down to Caer’s level and was ruffling his ears. “Both,” Mor admitted with a sheepish grin. 

Frawley rolled her eyes. The gesture wasn’t affectionate but it wasn’t unfriendly, either. Nesta had discerned a long time ago that Frawley reserved her smiles for those who truly counted.

“Where’s Cassian?” Frawley asked Nesta, her brown eye swivelling to meet the blue.

“They’ll be here in an hour or so,” Mor supplied. “You’re going to have a lot of the Night Court in your home.”

Frawley loosed an abrupt snort. “That’s to be expected. Your High Lord and Shadowsinger will be wanting to interrogate the sentry no doubt?”

“Naturally,” Mor replied, but she was taking in the forest—the vibrant, lush quality of the fluffy woodruff that grew on the woodland floor, their smattering of tiny, white flowers beautiful against the ivy that wound its way up the rich bark of the slim tree trunks. “You have a lovely home,” she added.

“Thank you. The forest is its own creature but it bends to my will,” Frawley replied crisply with a wave of her hand to their surroundings. To the lack of threat and encroaching darkness that existed amongst the trees of the uncharted cross-section of the Steppes—the section of the forest Nesta and Cassian had walked through that day they had been attacked by the kerits. 

Frawley’s blue eye snapped to Nesta as they entered the house. “You’re not mending those girls wings without Cassian as a tether. You look dead on your feet already. Have you felt for the bottom of your magic this morning?”

That stubborn chin rose. “Yes.”

Nesta had reached for it whilst she had bathed. Her invisible hands had scraped the bottom far too quickly and she had recoiled, scrambling back up when she tasted bitter metal. She hadn't been scared, though. She hadn’t felt anything at all.

The witch loosed a snort. “And how quickly did you find it?”

“I’ll completely lower my emotional shields. It will rally my power.”

“Not without Cassian you won’t,” Frawley repeated. “Bones are fine but if you plan to undo those clipping scars you need someone who can wrench you out if you tunnel too deep.”

Absent-mindedly, Nesta’s hand flew to the left rib beneath her heart. It was the rib Cassian had pulled on yesterday when she had been healing Ailie. The pain had been so sharp—the rib splintering with such a loud crack in Nesta’s ears that she had stopped falling enough to realise she had to climb.

Frawley had reformed the bone with her magic but Cassian’s tormented expression whilst he had observed her being healed, had told Nesta that he was beating himself up for not thinking of another way to yank her out.

Nesta had been too traumatised by the day’s events to tell anyone about the veil. How it had moaned and moaned and moaned her name as she had healed Ailie. How it was that voice that urged her to tumble down to the bottom—deeper and deeper—until her name was not chanted by that ancient being but Cassian, imploring her to come back. And now… even though Frawley might understand what it was, Nesta found she couldn’t. That she didn’t want to relive yesterday again.

“Fine,” Nesta conceded. The warmth of the cottage sunk pleasantly into her skin as they stepped across the threshold and Nesta bit back a groan. Lorrian appeared in the hallway and he greeted Mor with a nod of his head before he bowed to kiss Nesta’s cheek in hello. “We’ll wait, but tell me about the girls in the meantime.”

* * *

It was only an hour and a half before Cassian found Nesta and Mor in the barn. Frawley had insisted that Mor and Nesta take tea before heading out to see the girls. It was an obvious tactic devised to allow the magic murmuring through Nesta’s veins to become stronger, but Mor had taken the opportunity to fill Frawley and Lorrian in on the hidden entrance. 

Besides asking for an update on the girls, Nesta remained mostly silent and drank the energising tea she was growing sick of. 

“They are ghosts,” Frawley had clipped as she refilled Nesta’s mug. “But there are no life threatening injuries, just scars that run deep and broken bones.”

Nesta knew Frawley had not just been talking about the damage to their wings. Knew that the girls were all under sleeping draughts so they could dreamlessly sleep off their exhaustion.

As she always did, Nesta turned before Cassian even stepped through the large double doors of the barn. From the grim expression on his face, Nesta knew that the interrogation hadn’t been pleasant. That Cassian was already mourning the fact that he had not been able to do more for Alaksandar—a bastard who had no doubt grown up being as maltreated and uncared for as he had. And that constant neglect and disdain served to him by his race… it was no doubt that which had led to Alaksander defecting for a cause full of promise for a better life.

Tucking in his wings tight, Cassian walked on silent feet towards she and Mor. Frawley followed close behind him, her features so stern that Nesta wondered exactly what they had discussed before entering. In the distance, Nesta saw Azriel, Rhys and Feyre pause at the threshold. Their gazes swept around the barn’s interior, clocking the absence of its usual hay and the cots that had been laid out in its stead.

Despite Cassian’s dark mood, his smile was genuine as he drew up beside her. It was the closest they had been since he’d got out of bed that morning and something in Nesta relaxed, as if her body were unspooling and thawing. 

“Ready?” he asked Nesta as Mor straightened beside them. Mor and Nesta had already done a round of the barn together, the blonde’s features stricken as Nesta explained the injuries she, Frawley and her sisters had managed to heal the day before.

Mor had not asked why Cassian was Nesta’s tether. Nesta supposed she had seen Nesta’s memory from the cave from yesterday—had witnessed how Cassian had pulled her out. 

“You weren’t gone long,” Mor commented with a frown, but Cassian did not even glance at his friend. He only scanned Nesta’s face, as if he were trying to discern just how badly she was faring. Nesta had the distinct feeling that if nobody was there, that he would have cupped her face in his hands. Perhaps pressed his lips to the crown of her head as he’d done the day before.  
  
And usually Nesta would have assumed that Cassian was holding back because of what his friends might think. But she reminded herself of the words they had shared back at Ironcrest and then back in his bedroom. Of his apology and hers and knew somehow, that Cassian was giving her the choice to decide how she wanted their interactions to play out. That if she took his hand that he would only grasp it back.

Frawley swished up to their side in a swirl of fabric. “Go slowly this time,” she warned Nesta. “Listen to the music. As soon as it starts to change then it’s time to stop. You control the magic not the other way around.”

“Have you lowered your shields?” Cassian asked Nesta. 

When she nodded, he frowned. Tentatively, she felt him spear towards her down that tether—light unfurling like a creeping tendril as it traversed towards her dark. It faltered slightly when it felt nothing from her—no hope, nothing—but then it continued, until it was curled around her ribcage, a comforting weight. 

One step on his long muscular legs and Cassian was behind Nesta. His warmth seeped into her body and Nesta leant back into his chest, a silent thank you for anticipating what she needed before she closed her eyes and turned inwards, reaching for that power inside of her.

But she couldn’t summon it. Couldn’t flip her magic so it turned from silver to white. Couldn’t feel anything from the girls in their dreamless sleep. That numb still held on to her as if it were lead and Nesta couldn’t rise from its heavy pull.

Brightness flared from Nesta’s fingers but the tent only illuminated in a metal sheen rather than the white glow of her healing magic. It lit up Mor’s wide eyes but then Cassian’s hands were sliding from Nesta’s elbows to her wrists, until they were cupping the backs of her hands. He did not balk at her fire. If anything, he pulled her closer to him, cradled her to the grooves of his body, and from the proximity of his voice, Nesta could tell that he had bowed his head, encasing her in _him—_ her tether.

“Think about good,” Cassian murmured softly. “Think about flying on Sala. Think about Roksana’s flying lessons. Think about Mas. Think about pummelling me into the dirt during training.”

The soft breath of air that Nesta loosed was as close to amusement as she could muster. With the sound, the flames at her fingertips winked out and Nesta jumped at the reprieve to cast her mind back to things that weren’t shadowy but full of colour.

But… it wasn’t working. It wasn’t enough. _She_ wasn’t good enough—

“If you summon your healing magic I’ll taste you again.” Cassian’s voice was barely audible and so intimate that Nesta barely made out what he was saying, and it took a moment of her brain scrambling for his words to hit home—at the insinuation behind them. “Would you like that?” he murmured. His breath was so hot against the shell of Nesta’s ear that her entire body tightened and her blood _roared,_ her magic spiking hot beneath her skin.

Nesta knew what Cassian was doing. He was saying whatever he could to rally an emotional response from her, to pierce through that heavy film of unfeeling that plagued her. Yet, even with that knowledge her back arched slightly at the forged heat that scorched through her—

A refreshing wave of ruby sluiced down that bond, like a cold hand pressed to a fevered brow, and that power sizzled and quieted until silver and white was channelling steadily through her veins, ready to be wielded as Nesta saw fit. 

Fire gave way to healing and Nesta heard someone gasp as her hands started to glow with all that was pure and good. 

When Nesta opened her eyes, Mor’s face was alight with awe, but Frawley’s was nothing but serious. Cassian’s calloused palms slid from the backs of her hands to her elbows, holding her steady but giving her the control she needed.

“Focus only on those two scars,” Frawley instructed Nesta, jerking her chin towards the messy, jagged scars across the girls back. “Picture them and then feel for them with your magic.”

Nesta closed her eyes and did as she was asked. Until she could see the scars floating in the darkness in front of her eyelids. Keeping the image there, Nesta allowed her palms to move independently, for her healing light to be drawn to the place where they were most-needed. She knew when she had found them—just as she always did—because something clicked into place. The wound wasn’t fresh like the injuries Nesta had tended to the day before. Instead, the cuts held a light grey quality, as if the life had been leeched out of them but had not yet been darkened by the years of Mas’s damaged wings.

“I’ve got them,” Nesta told Frawley.

Frawley’s clipped words floated into Nesta’s ears. “Good. Imagine what you want them to do. Imagine the tendons knitting back together, but don’t wholly give yourself up to the healing process. Keep yourself rooted.”

The music of Nesta’s power already begged her to give herself over to it—to the innate desire to heal and rectify the wrongs—but Nesta remained firm. She focussed on the beating of Cassian’s heart against her head and the firm, support of his hands against her elbows. She concentrated on the scent of him—the scent that she could still taste in her mouth even though it had been hours since his lips had been on hers and his tongue had claimed her own.

“You’ve got this, sweetheart,” Cassian rasped, the pride in his voice unwavering. “You’re doing it.”

“By the Mother,” Mor whispered when Nesta finally dropped her hands—once the dark shadowy grey of the girls clipped wings had dissolved into nothing but an image of light behind her eyelids, as if they had never existed. “That was amazing. It would take Madja hours to do that—days.”

But Cassian was not looking at his friend. He had raised one of his hands to brush it over Nesta’s hairline, to coax her to look up at him. “Ok, sweetheart?” he asked with concern. She hadn’t realised how heavily she was leaning back against his chest.

Nesta nodded. And so they carried on. Bed-to-bed, Cassian’s warmth against her back, his breath a soft lulling trance of its own. 

They were surveyed but Nesta did not care. Not when she was doing something good. A spectacle for the first time in the way that mattered. 

They managed eight sets of wings before Nesta had to stop. She recoiled so suddenly halfway through the mending process that Nesta would have gone careening backwards if Cassian had not been cradling her with his body. The bitter taste of tea and blood flooded her mouth and she opened her eyes to find three sets of alert eyes on her. 

For a moment, her surroundings bled in and out of focus, but Nesta tried to concentrate on the blurred outline of Cassian and the tips of his wings. On the glow of his siphons which did not remind her of blood and death but something much fiercer as they winked in the dark.

“You’re done,” Frawley announced firmly. “No more.”

And that had been that.

They traipsed back into the cottage to find Azriel, Feyre and Rhys were in the living room in deep discussion with Lorrian. 

Nesta ignored the way they all looked at her in concern as she wobbled on unsteady legs towards the armchair by the fire supported by Mor. Someone pressed a mug of tea into her hands and Sala pushed her head into Nesta’s lap, but Nesta was so drained she couldn’t even pinpoint who they were by scent. 

She drank deeply, draining her tea to the dregs. Someone refilled her mug and Nesta drank again—three more times—until she no longer felt as if she might collapse and Nesta’s senses kicked into action. She felt the heat of the silent fire on her face and the soft murmur of conversation. When she truly _looked_ with her eyes, she found Feyre knelt beside the armchair. Her sister’s face was twisted with such concern that for a moment Nesta forgot all of their previous issues.

Her heart twisted. 

“Are you all right?” Feyre asked. 

“I’m fine,” Nesta replied hoarsely, wincing as her head pounded at the sound of her voice. She pressed her palms to her temples to try and stifle the pain but it made no difference. Yet, despite the discomfort, Nesta felt… present. No longer did she feel separate from her body. Healing the girls had grounded her—given her a sense of purpose. A good deed to undo the blood on her hands, even if the death she had served had been deserved. 

With a sharp tut, Frawley thrust a plate piled high with food into Nesta’s lap. “Food,” the witch explained without cause. Nesta spied salmon, rice and avocado. “Lots of calories,” Frawley elaborated when she saw Nesta’s look. “The more we up your energy levels the better you’ll feel. It will certainly get rid of that headache.”

So even though Nesta felt nauseous at the sight of the food, she ate the entire plate. Only when she finished did she look around and allow her ears to tune into the conversation happening around her.  


Lorrian winked at Nesta. He was sitting at his usual armchair on the other side of the hearth. Caerleon sat between his legs, his eyes squeezed shut in bliss as Lorrian ruffled the manticore’s mane.

Cassian was slumped in the far right-hand side of the couch, a mug of tea cradled in his big hands. He almost looked as tired as she did. Azriel stood beside him and Nesta suspected that the Shadowsinger had vacated it for his brother.

Neither of them had gotten much sleep, Nesta supposed. 

Fighting back a blush and the image of Cassian’s dark head between her legs, Nesta straightened. “You interrogated the sentry?” she asked.

Everyone turned to look at her but Nesta kept upright. Not steely—her body wouldn’t allow for that—but strong and determined. Eager to be informed and to help.

“We did,” Rhys confirmed with a grim expression. Like Azriel, her sister’s mate remained standing in the way Nesta noticed he was prone to doing when discussing serious matters. His perfectly tailored clothes were free of lint or dirt, but something lurked in the back of those star-dusted eyes that told Nesta the information couldn’t have been good.

“And?” Mor pressed from where she was perched on the arm of the couch beside Feyre.“Out with it Rhys.”

“As suspected, the males are a part of the rebellion,” Rhys confirmed.

“And the girls,” Nesta pressed. “What of them? Why were they abducting them?”

“For their blood,” Cassian admitted with a face as hard as granite. “But the little shit didn’t know more than that. Only that Kallon had ordered them to do it and that they were part of his trusted circle. It was an important task. They were told it would help them to conquer in the uprising but they did not know how.”  
  
“He strictly ordered them to cut their wings before they were drained of their blood,” Feyre said softly to Nesta. “Those girls were meant to be the last of them.”

Bile burnt its way up Nesta’s throat and acid flooded into her mouth. Only iron-will prevented her from spilling her stomach onto the carpet. 

“And what of the sentry now?” Mor enquired, her expression alight with anger.

“Alive,” Azriel replied, his voice as devoid of feeling as a blank canvas. His shadows curled up around his shoulders and neck, until tendrils crept across the marble planes of his face. They looked like the shadows cast by ears of wheat across a field on a sunny day. 

“We will deliver justice in the way you suggested,” Rhys added, surprising Nesta. Her eyes shot to his. “We will clip his wings in the square of the Ironcrest camp. We will announce the new law and allow the message to spread that to clip another’s wings results in the loss of their own.”

A rustle sounded as Cassian unconsciously adjusted his wings, but nobody interrupted Rhys as he looked to Frawley and said, “We no longer need sole access to the cave. Will you travel with Azriel and I so we can unweave our shields? I would also appreciate your help in removing the blood from the pit. Dark magic holds it there and I could use an extra pair of magical hands. I could call in Amren, but I have a feeling that her assistance will be unnecessary.”

Frawley’s grin was feline and for a moment, Nesta did not know whether it was in reference to the former or latter part of Rhys’s statement, until she said, “Couldn’t undo my shield yourself, Rhysand?”

Rhys’s chuckle was low. “I wouldn’t even dare to try, Frawley. I know better than that.”

Frawley got to her feet and flattened her skirts. Caer stood too. “That’s probably for the best,” she responded brusquely. “Even Nesta couldn’t get through my shields.”

“And we nearly died because of it,” Cassian muttered, ignoring Frawley’s sharp look from her blue eye.

Lorrian snorted. “I think you’ll find I came to rescue you.”

“A little too late,” Cassian growled. “If it wasn’t for the explosion when Nesta’s magic connected with the shields we would have been dead by the time you arrived.”

Frawley rolled her eyes. “So dramatic,” she tutted. “Thanks to Nesta my shields are as close to indestructible as they can get. The energy it acquired from that day with the kerits is so vast that the shield runs almost entirely by itself. Now,” she said briskly, turning to Rhys with a brisk clap of her hands, “shall we go? I have things to do.”

Despite the tiredness tugging at Nesta’s body, she could not help the smile that curved her lips. Nobody outside of the Inner Circle spoke to Rhys that way. But Nesta supposed that Frawley did not care for ranks or titles. How many High Lords had she seen come and go during her lifetime? How many had she refused to work with?

A chuckle as deep and smooth as velvet ran around the room. “How do I always seem to forget how commanding you are?” Rhys mused. “You’d fit in very well with our Inner Circle, Frawley. Each one of them gives me hell.”

“And I will remind you that I do not work in the intricacies of the court,” Frawley responded, the sudden sharp edge to her voice indicating that she and Rhys were treading old ground.

“You live in the Night Court,” Cassian drawled in reminder, bending a leg so an ankle rested atop his knee. He leant back into the cushions, all casual swagger and arrogance as he moulded into his comfortable taunting relationship with Frawley.

“I live in the Steppes, which are not ruled by Illyrians or the Night Court,” Frawley countered crisply. “It is an extraordinary phenomenon with extraordinary power and it only bends to the will of my sisters. It has been that way for millennia. I do not endeavour to rule anything outside of it. I intervene when it is called for.”

The dangerous way in which Frawley spoke had a tense silence settling around them all, but all Nesta could think of was how _old_ the witch was—how ancient. The things she must have experienced in her life must have superseded anything Nesta had seen or felt, yet the witch had wanted to be her friend. Had not judged her for one second. 

“Of course,” Rhys agreed with an unconcerned wave of his hand. And Nesta had a feeling that he truly did understand. “You will find that I do not wish to interfere with that, as you well know. But do know we have been allied over the years and I always heed to your counsel.”

The witch snorted, but she only responded with a sharp now which indicated the end of the conversation.

Rhys turned his violet eyes to Nesta. “In that vein,” he continued, “I’d like to speak with Maya before we leave, but Frawley suggested it might be better if you were to ask if she’d be willing to speak with us.”

Nesta’s back straightened. “Why me?”

She did not mean _why do I have to do it?_ but rather _what makes me so special?_ She winced at her blunder, unsure as to whether the others had gleaned that, but none of them had stiffened at her tone.“What I mean is why would Maya listen to me?” Nesta corrected.

Feyre’s features softened but Frawley’s eyes swivelled to Nesta, the brown catching up a millisecond after the blue. “Maya came to find you,” Frawley told Nesta. “She asked _you_ to help her because she’d heard about what you have done for the females at Windhaven.”

“You helped as well,” Nesta replied with a frown. In fact, Nesta suspected Frawley had killed the majority of the sentries with those needles flying from her palms.

But rather than Frawley, it was Azriel who spoke next. “My spies have confirmed what we have known for a while,” he announced. “The females in the camps are all talking about you—about what you have done for the other females. About how you protected them.”

“Maya must have heard about you because of Mas,” Cassian added from across the room, his voice a wonderfully deep rumble. “She asked others to spread the word about what happened with the kerits. There are very few Illyrians who have not heard about how you brought Mas back to life, Nesta.” 

Holding Cassian’s gaze, Nesta lifted her chin. He was seated too far away from her and Nesta wished again that he was closer. “I’m not their saviour.” Her words were blunt but they were not designed to be cruel, only to speak a truth she had already voiced to Cassian the day before. “I’m not Illyrian,” she clarified.

“You are sparking something in them,” Feyre said softly to Nesta. “That spark will catch aflame, Nesta. You can help scatter the embers before the females start to take the lead.”

Nobody spoke as their High Lady’s words sunk in. Allowed Nesta the time to process. And… Feyre was right. Nesta could be that catalyst if there were other Illyrian females to take up the mantle. She could be the spark that led to females having a voice and the ability to protect themselves. She could be useful in that way.

“I’ll speak to Maya,” Nesta promised. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs,” Frawley said. “She’s not left the side of her girls.”

  
Nesta had enquired after Maya, Ailie and Samra upon her arrival but Frawley had only told Nesta that Ailie was a husk. That Maya and her sister cuddled her and fed her but that she was little more than a doll. And whilst Nesta knew that was to be expected, it made a lump form in her throat. It made her want to sob and sob and _sob._

When Nesta stood, so did Sala—her companionable shadow.

“Where are you going?” Feyre asked worriedly. Her sister cut an uncertain look at Cassian. Neither Azriel or Rhys moved, as if they knew better than to tell her to sit down, but Mor threw an arm out to steady Nesta as she swayed, still light headed despite the tea and the food. 

“Thank you,” Nesta told Mor. She willed her legs to work—to carry her to the door. “I’m going to get Maya.”

* * *

  
After solemnly promising that Sala would guard the guest room that Maya and her daughters were residing in, the twin had agreed to come downstairs with Nesta.

Maya’s expression was tired and gaunt as she descended the wooden staircase. A fierce wariness shone in the female’s light amber eyes but she allowed Nesta to show her into the living room. The twin’s ebony hair was swept back into the same double bun Nesta had noticed during her stay in Ironcrest, and the female’s clothes smelt of fresh laundry soap, no doubt thanks to Frawley and her sisters. 

Sensing the female’s hesitation, Nesta took Maya’s hand. It was slick with sweat but Nesta pretended not to notice as she sat the twin down in the armchair closest to the hearth. 

Maya’s eyes widened as they swept around the room and clocked the company she was in. Her gaze snagged on Cassian and he smiled kindly at her—it was the sort of approachable smile Cassian graced most with and it made Nesta’s heart twist at the _goodness_ in him. 

“Here, have some tea,” he said, unfolding his ginormous frame from the couch to pour Maya a smoky brew from a china teapot that now sat atop the low coffee table that separated the couch from the hearth. If it had been any other time, Nesta might have howled at how hilariously small and fragile the delicate china looked in Cassian’s hands, but Nesta only caught the tea as Azriel floated the saucer across the living room on a breeze the colour of his siphons, before she handed it to Maya. 

Everyone had seated themselves in Nesta’s short absence from the room. Frawley had clearly found it upon herself to magic an additional couch and a few more armchairs so everybody could get comfortable. Feyre and Mor sat together on a two-seated settee nursing steaming cups of their own, their legs tucked up casually beneath them. Even Azriel and Rhys were sitting, as if they knew to remain would only make Maya uneasy. 

Nesta took the empty armchair beside Maya and wordlessly took the second saucer from Azriel’s sapphire chilled air. Cassian had clearly taken it upon himself to pour her a drink without asking.

When she took a sip she found that it was not one of Frawley’s tonics but chai. Her body melted.

“Thank you for coming down to speak with us,” Rhys said to Maya, his voice crafted into that perfect and genuine tone that immediately set his subjects at ease. “I would like to start off by saying how sorry we all were to hear what has happened to you and your girls. I’d like to assure you that we are looking into the motivations behind these abductions and that we plan to serve justice to those involved.”

The column of Maya’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. There was something heartbreakingly vulnerable in the female’s expression that had Nesta wanting to grab for Maya’s hand and squeeze it tight. 

The twin’s nod was delayed and hesitantly slow. She swallowed again and Nesta felt the panic rising like a cresting wave before Maya blurted, “We cannot go back to Ironcrest.”

“Of course not,” Nesta said immediately. “We would never send you back there.”

“There is a place of sanctuary in Velaris,” Mor said softly, her palms tilting open sideways from where they had been clasped together on her lap—as if she were offering something physical to Maya. The blonde’s eyes shimmered with sincerity as she leant forwards and Nesta wondered if the library was an initiative run by Mor in light of her own troubled past. “It’s a peaceful place where you can go with your girls in order to heal. It can be your home, if you wish it.”

Maya’s voice was more measured this time and it was laced with disbelief and a wariness that Nesta supposed came with a lifetime of being controlled. “And if we don’t wish it to be our home?”  
  
“Then we will find somewhere comfortable for you elsewhere,” Cassian interjected softly. “Somewhere safe that suits you better.”

A brief silence fell. Nesta watched Maya wring her hands over and over and over as she catalogued their words. The female stared at Cassian for a long moment—at his sad, lopsided smile—before she asked, “And what about the other girls? They have no-one to care or miss them.”

“They will be taken to the same place,” Mor said. “We will not send them back to Ironcrest, unless they explicitly express that they wish to return home.”

None of those girls would ever want to set place in that camp again, Nesta was sure of that. But it was a choice either way—something Nesta was learning the Night Court was famous for.

Maya twisted her head to look at Nesta. “You have been there? To the place they are speaking of?”

Nesta did not allow herself to stiffen or falter, even as she thought of Bryaxis and the Ravens. Instead, she focussed on the tidbits of information she had been fed about the library by Feyre before everything had gone to shit. “Yes,” Nesta replied. “It is a place of healing. You, Samra and Ailie can start anew. Velaris is the City of Starlight. Fae live in happiness there.”

A shuddered breath escaped from Maya that sounded like a stifled sob, and Nesta realised that the female had probably never dreamed that she would live somewhere safe where she would be granted an unlimited amount of time with her daughters. Had accepted that she would only be granted fleeting visiting hours when Marsh was not in a temper with her. 

“We were wondering if you could tell us how you knew about the girls being taken,” Nesta pressed quietly. “I know it must be awful for you to speak about, but anything you can tell us might help us to track down the males responsible.”

Maya’s hands shook and her untouched cup trembled on the saucer, but her voice was unwavering, if not a little devoid of life, when she said simply, “Servants talk.” The twin’s eyes flitted briefly to Cassian. “I had heard the cooks and chamber maids whispering thatgirls had started to go missing, but I didn’t think much of it. This is—it’s Illyria. Things happen to females all of the time. But then when Ailie and Samra disappeared—“ Maya broke off as her voice wobbled and a fat tear rolled down her cheek. 

“Do you know why your girls were taken?” Nesta asked quietly. 

Maya’s mouth tightened and despite her lovely beauty, for a moment, she just looked old and tired. The female desperately wiped away the wet from her cheeks. “It was my fault,” she whispered.

Nesta’s heart began to pound as Frawley asked, “What do you mean?”

“I displeased him.”

Cassian strode across the room to hand Maya a clean square of linen—a handkerchief. “Who?” he asked gently, crouching down so he was eye level with the twin.

“I—“ Maya took the handkerchief and dabbed at her face. “Kallon. I displeased Kallon.”

“What happened?” Cassian asked. 

Maya’s lifted her lashes and for a moment she stared at Cassian and her light amber eyes shone with a repressed secret. “Kallon is my son.”

Even though Lorrian had questioned the idea only two days ago, the confession still made Nesta’s stomach drop to her toes with a leaden thump.

“Marsh is not a good male,” Maya explained as she began to twist the handkerchief in her hands. “But he—he loved my sister very much. Adored her, actually. When she died, he would not marry me, even though it was heavily advised. Even now he cannot bare to look at me most of the time because I remind him so much of my sister. But Marsh knew that he needed a strong heir. My sister and I were prophesied you see. At our birth it was announced that whoever was to fall pregnant first would be gifted with a youngling made from the old Gods—a star-born child.”

The air around the room had gone very still. Maya trapped her shaking hands beneath her legs. 

“I had not heard that,” Cassian said gently into the silence. He was still kneeling in front of Maya, his rough-hewn features beautifully soft, somehow.

When Nesta dared a glance at Frawley, Nesta could see that even the witch had not caught word of the prophecy on the wind.

“Barely anyone knew of it,” Maya replied. “It was a secret closely guarded by the Ironcrest royalty. Over half a millennia after the death of my sister, I gave birth to Kallon.”

And since then, Maya had given birth to two girls, Nesta thought. She could not bring herself to ask why Marsh had continued to requesting Maya visit his bed.

“I was denied access from Kallon as soon as he emerged from the womb,” Maya continued. “He was given straight to Marsh’s wife and he was raised at a distance. I was not allowed access and I only saw him around the court whilst I was carrying out my many duties. But Kallon takes after his father. He is clever and conniving and he learnt of his true parentage when Ailie came along. Everyone knows why Marsh keeps me at his residence rather than turning me out into the widows camp, and it would not have been difficult for Kallon to demand the information he sought from a servant.”

“And he learnt of the prophecy?” Lorrian asked.

Maya nodded again. “Of course. Marsh was proud in the knowledge that Kallon was blessed by the old Gods. He made it clear to Kallon from a very young age that he was special, but the knowledge was to be kept quiet in case word got out to any of the other clans. The preferential treatment resulted in a spoilt and arrogant little boy who has grown into a cruel and conniving male.”

“And then Kallon found the sword?” Rhys guessed.

Maya nodded. “Then he found the sword but—“ 

The twin broke off and her eyes darted around the room as if she was suddenly terrified something might happen to her. 

“You’re safe,” Nesta assured Maya, gripping the twin’s hands again. “Nobody can harm you here.”

“My wards are indestructible,” Frawley reassured the female.

Maya took a deep breath and then the words were rushing out of her. “The sword does not work.”

“That would explain why he was only showcasing it on that damn pillow,” Lorrian muttered. 

But Cassian frowned. He had straightened to warm his back in front of the hearth rather than crowd Maya’s space. “What do you mean?”

“When he wields it—when he strikes to maim—the blade vanishes,” Maya told them. 

“Who knows of this?” Feyre asked softly. It was the first time her sister had spoke since Maya had stepped into the room.

“I do not know, High Lady,” Maya replied with a bow of her head. “Kallon came to my room a month ago, pressing me for more information about the prophecy. I made the mistake of saying that the prophecy was only a prediction, that perhaps that was why the sword would not work. He was furious. He’s volatile at the best of times but he vowed as he left that I was useless and that I would get what I deserved. Two weeks later my girls—his sisters—were gone.”

The pause that fell across the room was one of appalled shock.

“And how did you learn of the cave?” Azriel asked after a moment that had stretched out for too long.

Maya looked uncertainly between the Shadowsinger and Nesta.

“Don’t mind, Azriel,” Cassian told Maya with an easy grin. “He’s not as terrifying as he looks. He’s surprisingly the most gentlemale of us all.”

Azriel’s face remained stoic but his shadows lifted to reveal his beautiful face—the classic chiselled lines. 

“My sister and I grew up at Marsh’s residence,” Maya continued with another glance at the Shadowsinger. “I know the tunnels beneath the mountain better than anyone else. The two of us went exploring whenever we could. We found the cave one day and then used it as we grew older so we could sneak out to go flying. I made the mistake of telling Kallon about the cave when he began visiting me. I was desperate for us to bond and although he loved to fly, he was not strong at it. He used to use the tunnel as an exit so he could practice away from prying eyes, just as my sister and I had. It was our little secret.”

Nesta could not imagine a young, innocent Kallon. Did not want to see the male as anything but evil.

“And how did you learn to fight?” Cassian asked the twin.

A shadow fell over Maya’s expression. “Someone taught me,” the female replied, sharp enough that nobody dared push her for more information.

And Nesta wondered as she studied the twin’s beautiful face just how Maya could bear to breathe—to exist—in a world that had been so unimaginably cruel to her. 

* * *

After walking Maya back to her rooms, Nesta escaped out of the front door. Gulping down the fresh air as if it were a lifeline, Nesta steered clear of the barn, instead choosing to walk past it to get to the paddock. 

Leaning heavily against the wooden fencing, Nesta stared up at the sky, trying to blot out Maya’s confessions and the gaunt expression of her daughters as Nesta caught a glimpse of them before the bedroom door had snicked shut. 

She didn’t realise she was crying until the sky and trees became a blur. Silent sobs wracked her body and the effort it took to contain them was so great that her ribcage creaked as she almost winded herself with the pain of holding it inside. 

And then Cassian was there, the scent of snow-crusted pine and musk winding around her body as he enveloped her.

“Hey,” Cassian rasped as he ducked down to try and catch her attention. “Nesta, look at me.” His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “It does not make you weak to feel. To process. It makes you _you._ So cry as loudly as you want.”

But Nesta did not splinter the air with her sobbing. She only gasped for breath, her aching lungs heaving as she tried to grapple for something that would keep her afloat. 

“I’m so tired,” she confessed after a long while when everything had quieted. Cassian had cradled her to his chest and her forehead rested right over his hammering heart. She squeezed her eyes shut and tears trickled from the corners. Nesta smelt the salt from them. The pain. 

Cassian’s chest rumbled and a large calloused hand cupped the nape of her neck. “I know you are. Me too.”

In the distance, Feyre and Rhys stepped out of the cottage but they halted as they spied she and Cassian in the paddock—the way she had allowed him to embrace her. But she didn't care. She needed this comfort from him. It was a different kind of comfort to last night, when he had drawn feeling out of her and made the world bleed back into colour. This was safe and calm and serene, somehow. Like a tranquil, still sea or the mesmerising lick of flames as they danced in a hearth.

Cassian dropped his head to murmur into her hair. “Frawley has suggested the girls have a week here to recuperate before we transport them back to Velaris.”

Nesta tilted her head so she could look up at him. His face was blurred by her tears—a kaleidoscope of golden brown and ebony. “That makes sense. I need to come back to heal the others.”

“We can wait until they are back in Velaris,” Cassian told her. “Get Madja to examine the extent of their injuries to see what she can do.”

But Nesta was frowning. “No,” she said. “That could take days and the girls have suffered so much. Let me do it. I can come back tomorrow—“

“You need to rest,” Cassian interjected softly. “We _both_ need to.”

And Nesta knew that if she insisted he would come back with her tomorrow. But…he was right. Her magic needed to replenish itself and even though Nesta couldn’t bare the thought of the girls twisted, mangled wings as a product of the badly healed scars, sense told her that coming back when her magic was at its more powerful would benefit the girls more. 

“I want to help the girls settle in when they are taken back to Velaris.”

Cassian’s smile was soft and kind. Nesta wondered if he was thinking about Bryaxis and the Ravens. Of the demons Nesta would push herself to face in that library. But he only pressed his lips to the top of her head and murmured, “I’m sure Mor and Clotho will appreciate the help.”


End file.
